#and i sort of desperately wanted to put something soft and kind into the world today

[buskingalbatross]

wrote a short fic today about dnp playing the board game wingspan back in january when phil was sick with laryngitis.

[euphoricfilter]

the silent ‘i love you’

pairing: jungkook x reader

genre: fluff || non-idol au

summary: sometimes you don’t need words

word count: 1.1k

tags/ warnings: fluff!!!! just very soft and nice and easy to read for tonight. intensional lowercase. sort of sleepy thoughts about love <3

where you can find my other works :D

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆.

some days jungkook simply felt like those three words weren’t enough. that the warm glow of his fragile soul couldn’t scream loud enough for your own precious existence to know how much he truly loved you.

that the whispered words of love as the both of you woke, or a gentle kiss before you both slept and met in your dreams— it simply was only the surface of how he felt. that the silent ‘i love you’ the both of you shared each day was somehow louder than the words themselves.

tender souls touching in a whimsical dance between your existence.

tangled so tight, unmoving, seeping out of you with that fluttery sort of love.

the kind of love that pulls a smile onto your lips at the mere thought of them. gentle touch enough to have your skin alight. obsessive, itching greed consuming every fibre of your being, needing them closer than humanly possible. bodies pressed together and heart beats in sync, tied together by a string of fate and life times you shared before this one.

and some days neither of you had to say ‘i love you’ but that didn’t mean the love wasn’t there. that either of you loved the other any less than you had the day before. or more than you would tomorrow. because it was ever-growing. blooming in both your chests, a flower that would live through all of eternity.

it would be him waking before you, purple and blue toothbrushes sat beside one another in the cup on the sink. or how on some days he’d pick your shower gel over his own. for no other particular reason that he loved everything about your existence, that he felt that little bit closer to you in the hours you had to part.

or remembering to tuck one of your hairties in one of his pockets, just in case.

the same hair tie you’ll find in the washing machine days later, smile tugging at your lips. because as much as you remind him to take everything out his pockets before putting them into the washing machine, there were things you could never get mad over. not when he thinks of you, even when you’re not there. a silent show of care that you never bring up because that was his secret to keep, dissolved into the back of your mind for safe keeping.

he likes to hold your hand as you cross the road, fingers interlaced. because he knows sometimes you get too caught up in your own head, unaware of the wider world around you. so he keeps you glued to the pavement before tugging you across the road. fingers squeezing yours when he knows the both of you are back to safety and you’ll let him pull you around, blind trust in him to take you where you need to go

you like picking him up from work, sat outside on a bench with a box of treats for the walk home. and he would indulge you, even if he had the car parked a block away. not caring if it would mean he had to walk the next morning. because he would never abandon those gentle moments with you, shoulders knocking as you kiss sweet cream from his lips, desperate to hear about his day just as much as you want to share yours

you liked to say ‘i love you’ through the stars. tugging him to the roof of the apartment building, legs tangled as you lay on a blanket.

you both look up at the sky.

so many questions slipping off your tongue. where you talk of fate and destiny and how you loved to believe that two souls so intricately intertwined like your own was probably crafted by something as beautiful as the stars, or another celestial being that just knew what the future held. speckles of fine stardust crafted and moulded, so, when you found a mortal body there would be no doubt he was the one for you, just as you were the one for him.

he likes sending you photos of cats. adopting the habit of carrying a small bag of treats around with him; though neither of you have a pet.

he remembers the frown that would tug on your face each time you’d come across a stray. and he’d stand there for as long as you like as your fingers pet over fluffy heads and behind furry ears. another silent vow of love to a lonely creature.

you liked to pack him lunches, hours spent in the kitchen of a nighttime experimenting, because you never wanted him to have a dull meal. and he’d sit there at the table, reading as a piano piece plays over your phone. not a word spoken between the both of you, and some nights you scuttle his way with a fork-full of something for him to try.

there was love in the tv shows you watched together, the music you shared, the space you both lived in. the closet was a muddle of clothes and accessories that he liked to steal from you just like you steal from him. racks of both your shoes line the entry way of the apartment, collection of mugs a sudden birthday tradition that will go on for as long as you’re alive.

you lived in his mind like you lived in the plants around the house. or the posters you’d put on the walls. and he lived in your mind with gaming consoles and photos of you hung up that he had taken, loved and forever cherished; thriving in the memory of you and how much he loved you then and how much he loves you now.

jungkook had tried to find a better word.

hours spent laying in bed, with your head on his chest, moon spilling into the room as he mulls over the thought of you.

how he likes how warm you are, how he likes sharing this space with you. that he’s glad he’s found you, grateful that you exist within the same time line as him.

your silly little stories of a wonderful sweet sort of love filling his own mind— because maybe you really were crafted for one another. and even if he forgets three simple words, the both of you know love lives within the sphere of your existence.

because maybe that’s what the both of you are when you’re together. maybe even in those moments you’re apart. perhaps you’re the epitome of the word love and that’s why all the silent ‘i love yous’ equal more than words ever will

[yandere-writer-momo]

For my birthday, I decided to finally drop the Jack Hanma smut piece! Enjoy

Yandere Baki Short Stories:

Carne

Yandere Jack Hanma x Female Reader

TW: Cannibalism as a metaphor for love, blood kink, smut, YANDERE, etc.

Hands desperately clawed at the table in front of (your name) in an attempt to ground herself. Pants and wanton moans spilled from her lips as she was driven to the brink of insanity…

“This is what you get for teasing me.” A deep voice snarled in her ear and his hips pistoned into hers. His monstrous length slid between her damp folds as a puddle of their fluids dripped beneath them. (Your name)’s toes were over feet off the ground while her legs dangled in the air since Jack held her body up with his strong arms. “Always flaunting yourself around the other fighters. Parading around in those tight clothes like a whore.”

(Your name)’s head lulled to the side, a loud groan spilled from her swollen lips. Jack had been abusing her poor lower lips with his monstrous length for hours now. The stream of fluid leaking from her pussy was unending. (Your name) wasn’t even aware that Jack had any feelings for her. Their relationship was mostly physical. A no strings attached sort of arrangement. How was she to know he would grow jealous of her friendly banter with the other martial artists?

Jack was simply an outlet for her pent up frustrations, just like (your name) was an outlet to build ‘strength.’ His half brother, Baki, had put a worm in his ear that sex made one more powerful and Jack had approached her with that intention only… until he became attached. Until Jack became so overbearing and protective of her.

Wherever she was, Jack was never far. The blonde tank always stood guard over her. Whenever she’d confront Jack, he’d deny that he had feelings but (your name) knew the truth. She just didn’t care to correct him. Jack was a man one never wanted to anger. Jack was more of a beast than a man, one who would rip his apart like wrapping paper if they even looked in his direction funny. And she would like to keep that animalistic nature of his strictly in the bedroom.

Jack used to leave her in early hours in the morning after a nightly tryst, but now he stayed with her and cuddled. Sometimes he even made (your name) breakfast in bed. This development terrified her because (your name) never gave him any indication that she wanted a romantic relationship. She was always civil with him and treated him like a human being. She didn’t understand why he interpreted kindness as love. But perhaps it had something to do with his rough upbringing.

Jack was a man who felt like he didn’t deserve love nor life since he was brought into this world from hate. A man who only lived for revenge and nothing more… a man who now found solace in (your name)’s arms and in between her legs. A man who would never leave her side until she was completely his. Jack would drown her in his sea of affection until she adapted to be able to breathe in it.

(Your name) was swallowed whole in his musky, woodsy scent. The strong scent of pine overwhelmed her senses. All she could feel was Jack. All she could smell was Jack. Jack. Jack. Jack.

She came undone once more when his titanium teeth lightly grazed against the soft skin of her shoulder. Her walls grasped the empty space while his length ran between it. (Your name) desperately wanted him to fill her. To stretch her poor, weeping cunt until she was satisfied.

And in an instant his teeth sunk into her neck hard enough to draw blood, but not hard enough to rip a chunk of her off like he did to his opponents. His strong pink muscle darted out to greedily lap at the blood that trickled down her skin. His mouth now stained scarlet.

“Everything about you is so delicious… I can’t get enough of you.” Jack muttered into (your name)’s skin, his cinnamon eyes hazy with lust. “What kind of witchcraft have you cast on me?”

(Your name) gasped when he used a hand to tilt her chin up to look at him. A smirk on his face at how dazed her expression was.

“You’re so beautiful.” (Your name) could barely move when he bent down to kiss her. She could taste the iron of her own blood on his tongue as the strong muscle dominated hers. His large hand lights pressed against her through that left her absolutely breathless. The pace of his brutal thrusts never ceased.

Drool dripped out of the sides of her mouth and onto her bruised chest. Various bruises and bite marks littered her skin in a grotesque picture of love.

(Your name) was so lost… where did she begin and where did Jack end? How could a man consume her entirety to the point that she melted into him? That her blood mixed with his in a gory display of devotion?

“I love you. I love you so much.” Jack whispered in her ear as he dragged his tongue across the salty tears that fell down her cheeks. Had she been crying? (Your name) hadn’t even realized. “I love you so much, I want to become a part of you.”

A loud cry escaped her lips when she felt Jack’s hips start to slow, his grip on her throat never ceased. His cinnamon eyes filled with a voracious hunger she knew only her entire being could quench.

“You’re mine. No one else can have you. I don’t want to be with anyone else.”

And that’s when he finally shoved himself inside. His tongue tangled with hers and (your name) came on his length again. She could feel him spill himself inside her fluttering walls with a goal in mind. A goal he’d never reach since he was infertile from excessive steroid usage.

(Your name) went limp like a noodle while his viscous seed spilled from between her legs. Jack’s strong arms still held her up. His lips pressed hot kisses all over her face.

(Your name) slowly reached her hands up to cup his cheeks. A few tears spilled from Jack’s eyes while he shuddered. His lungs gasped for breath but he couldn’t help but hold his in anticipation. Jack wanted to know her answer, he wanted to know if his twisted feelings were reciprocated.

“I’m yours.”

Yes, she’d accept Jack. There was no one else in this world that has ever been attached of this broken man’s side and she’d be that person. She’d be his solace. (Your name) would be his meal.

For limerence and love were merely separated by a thin line.

[pastlivesxpastlie]

⋆˚₊ show me what you are ⋆˚₊

enemies with benefits vessel x f!reader

summary: you despise your friend of a friend vessel, and he despises you. but you quickly learn you have more in common that you ever thought.

7.4k words

tags, head's up, etc: SMUT, soft sub!vessel, soft domme!reader, lots of antagonizing one another, enemies to lovers, established enemies, casual arrangement, making out, idiots in lust, sexting, masturbation (m + f), praise, dirty talk, pet names (puppy, mommy), cockwarming, cowgirl, pronebone, squirting

a/n: I'm nervous about this one. I've been working on this before I started feeling depressed and I just want it out on the world. Also, in the (paraphrased) words of @rat-that-writes "he could never hate me. I'm too hot."

You’re minding your business at a cafe when he comes in. You lock eyes like you normally do when you happen upon each other. Blank, dead eyes. Face so flat it’s not even a scowl. Sighs. Vessel. A friend of a friend of a roommate of a friend. And a thorn in your side. Ok yes he’s very smart…and witty…and talented…but it doesn’t make him any less arrogant and annoying to be around. You two run in the same circles but that doesn’t mean you hang out. You just exist, for better or for worse, in the same space. No one could understand why you and him didn’t get along. You two weren’t so similar that it was grating, but you also weren’t so different that you were unable to find common ground. But there was something in the way of you two connecting. Of feeling anything other than hate. 

You look back down at your book until you hear the chair across from you scrap across the floor and someone slump into it. 

“I need you.”

You take a deep breath and pinch the bridge of your nose. You look up at Vessel and notice he’s staring at you expectantly. 

“Say something,” he says somewhere between a plea and a demand. 

“What are you talking about…you ‘need’ me?”

He looks down. “Uhm, well, you see…”

“Ves…spit it out.” You’re trying to keep your voice down as more people come into the cafe. Why couldn’t you have had this conversation at the party you both attended the night before? 

“I…fuck. I have…needs and…”

“Oh Jesus Christ.” You roll your eyes and crack your neck. “It’s 10 am…”

“No, let me…finish. God. I…have needs and I don’t really…want to look far. To get them met. Do you understand? Uhm…I..”

Is he asking for…?

“Use your words.”

He doubles back a little and licks his lips. Why do his eyes look watery? “Yeah. Yeah I'll use my words. Uhm. I was wondering if you’d be interested in exploring something sort of…loose with me. No strings.”

You laugh out loud from shock. “Is this a sick joke?”

Oh his little heart breaks when you laugh. You can see it. His sweet face drops. “No…no oh my god. I would never joke about this. Look. Hear me out. I…hun I am desperate. I need to just…” he puts his hand to his forehead… “I need the companionship…and the release…but I don’t have it in me to look for a relationship. Not right now and perhaps never.”

This is the first time you’ve seen him vulnerable and quite frankly you could get used to it. There was something about his voice that was different. Calm. Normal. Sincere. But you still feel that pull towards aggression. Instigation. “And someone you actively despise and harrass is your top pick for a fuck buddy?”

“I know we argue a lot!” he barks back. You shift uncomfortably as a couple at a nearby table glare at you both. Vessel clears his throat and lowers his voice. “We don’t get along. And what I’m asking for is a bit much…maybe we just…pretend for a bit? Every once in a while?” He gulps and shakes his head. “I’m genuinely pathetic, I’m…I’m so sorry. I’m being a fucking knob.”

You cross your arms and consider what he’s saying. “So you’re asking to have some kind of…situationship with me…without ever trying to be nice to me first?”

He wipes his hand down his face and groans. “I…fuck it. Yeah I am. I am here groveling and asking you to sleep with me every so often so that maybe I don’t do my own head in. And, also, I just thought maybe…since you’re…pent up and shitty like me. Maybe you’d like to have some fun every once in a while? It would be mutually beneficial. Our mouths would be busy, eyes closed. Maybe we wouldn’t even know it was the other.”

You scoff. “What is that supposed to mean? Pent up…” you straighten in your seat. But you knew exactly what he meant. You were high strung a lot, and Vessel made an excellent target for your frustrations. How could two shit stirrers find any kind of solace with each other? But…you didn’t have any other prospects banging down the door (or you). You put your hands up in surrender. “Ok. Ok. I’ll bite. Yeah…fun would be nice…”

“Right…yeah, yeah. Because I get the impression it’s been a minute for you and…”

“Dude, come on!” You interrupt. 

“Look,” he shakes his head and looks away, “you’re a nice girl when you want to be. And maybe if this arrangement is with you…someone I don’t really see often or whatever…” he finally looks you in the eyes.

~

That next Friday you’re in his flat for the first time. You sit on the couch awkwardly as he brings you some water and plops beside you. Ves bites the inside of his cheek. No one has really made any moves but first times are always awkward right? No matter what was going to happen tonight, it would be a first of some sort. The first time you’re nice to each other. The first time you really touch each other. “You look pretty.” He says sheepishly. 

You look down at your baggy band tee and short yoga shorts. “Don’t lie to me.”

“My god just take the compliment. We’re here just trying to have a good time and…”

“Ok ok. Thank you…Ves…that’s sweet of you to say.”

He turns a bit more towards you, searching your face. His eyes trace your body head to toe as he tries to stifle a small smile. This was his idea and yet he still doesn’t want to show you how much he likes looking at you. Being around your pretty self. You suddenly start to feel nervous as he scoots closer to you. He curls his long legs up underneath him and gently touches your arm. You study his fingers like they’re some harmless little bugs before bringing your gaze back up to his face. He’s not ugly. No. You just never think about his looks because he’s so annoying to you. But here you both are, looking at each other in quiet fascination. Your breath hitches.

“Why me, Ves?”

“Why not you?” Vessel rolls his eyes and moves a little closer and puts his hand out tentatively near your thigh. You gulp, pulling his hand to rest on your smooth skin. His hand rubs gentle strokes against you and his breath deepens. “You feel so good. God.”

“Yeah?”

He bites his lip and looks at you so dreamily. You chuckle. The world stops for what feels like the hundredth time since you’ve gotten here. You feel your head spin a little as he looks at you with what you want to call “desire,” but how could you two ever feel anything other than disdain? Vessel clears his throat slightly. “You can back out…before everything changes…”

“Everything’s changed already, Ves.”

His hand moves up your thigh and squeezes, kneading your soft flesh. He hums contently when you move closer, nearly on his lap. You were wrong when you said everything had already changed. It actually changed the moment you two instinctively moved closer. Not a kiss, but a hug. At first it was tense. Like siblings being told to hug it out. But soon the awkwardness wasn’t the most distracting thing. It was how he felt to you. Sure he was lanky and toned, but he had a softness. A gentleness in how his arms pulled you close and enveloped you. It made you feel like the tiniest thing. And you could tell he enjoyed it and wanted to relax. As he loosened up, he held you closer. He breathed you in. You swear you could fall asleep until he drags cheek and nose up your neck…it reminded you of an animal scenting something. Or maybe he wanted your essence on him. He starts to speak in a barely there whisper and then clears his throat.

“May I, please, start kissing you?”

You gulp. The hug alone aroused you, and the thought of kissing him made you feel completely brainless. “Yeah,” you whisper thickly. 

Vessel places small, gentle kisses in the crook of your neck, taking his time and breathing deeply between each peck. His lips are naturally pouty and feel so soft on your skin. He lets his lower lip drag up to your jaw before placing a delicate kiss right by your earlobe. You would say you don’t know what to do with your hands but they move on instinct. One gently squeezes his waist as the other traces lazy patterns on the back of his neck. 

“I love how your nails feel on me,” he whispers. He sounds like a different person. He’s actually lost in you…and you would know because you’re lost in him. You let your hand drift up to his hairline where you begin to scratch his scalp. His head falls back; his eyes closed and lips slightly parted. You chuckle softly and move both hands to his hair. Eventually you’re in his lap but you’re hesitantly to really relax. “I’ve got you. Have a seat, love.”

You start to feel nervous and the nasty voice in your head that says you’re not worthy and perfect for this kind of situation gets louder. “Is it because I’m easy? Do you think I’m easy?” You blurt out. So many times you’ve been taken advantage of and it wouldn’t even surprise you if this was one of those times where you were in the right place and desperate. 

Vessel’s eyes open, and he looks at you completely lost. He leans forward and helps you cross your legs around his waist. “You… darling…are one of the most difficult people I’ve ever encountered. It must really mean something if you’re here…in my flat…nestled on my lap. And I’m grateful. Thank you.” He begins kissing your neck again but with more fervor this time. More need. Your back arches as his kisses become wetter and his hands knead your plush thighs and ass. It’s no use. You give in to instinct and gently move his face to yours but you both stop. Your noses touch but the realization starts to set in. As quickly as you came together, you’re pulling apart.

“This isn’t the move, is it?” You ask, getting off his lap and smoothing your hair back.

Vessel inhales and rubs his face, groaning. “No. It was a mistake. Besides, you gave me that look.”

“What look?!”

“Oh don’t play dumb. You know the look. The one where you watch me flounder when you could help me.”

You scoff and stand up. “Wow you’re catching on. That’s how I always look at you.” You start to walk towards the door when you turn back to him. He hasn’t left his seat on the couch and doesn’t seem to care to do so. You’re not quite sure what you’re feeling. Arousal, but also annoyance at how quickly the mood changed. Certainly it was Vessel that ruined it, right? You feel that familiar stirring. To project. To rile him up and tear him down. 

He stares back at you. “You’re as pathetic as me. Don’t forget that. You wanted this too. You probably still do.”

Him being both right and cruel about it ignites a white hot rage inside you. You want to scream at him

ask what you did to deserve this from him. To ask him why he makes himself so easy to hate. But instead, you leave. 

...

A week later you’ve kept your weird interaction with Vessel in the back of your head but until then, you couldn’t give two dicks. It was the weekend. And it wasn’t like you to be at a bar like this. Metalheads. The hottest, tiniest goth girlfriends you’d ever seen. You felt out of place but your friends said “noooo we should go! It’s something different to do.” So you put on little black dress and Dr Martens and said “fuck it.” And you were glad you did because a new environment also meant new guys…and to your surprise you actually got some positive attention. 

You found yourself chatting with a guy at the bar as you waited for your drink. He was friendly and handsome enough; you had the ugly thought that maybe he was one of those metalheads who had never actually spoken to a girl, but that was quickly forgotten when you started a thoughtful conversation about a series you both like. And it wasn’t one of those conversations where a nerdy guy dominates and info dumps and corrects you like a jackass. It’s just…enjoyable. He finally starts warming up to you a little and lets his hand graze yours, laughing at your reaction when a sludgier song comes on. You bite your lip and giggle a little, flirting with him saying, “maybe I need someone to help me appreciate metal a little more.” Your hands briefly touch again, and he leans a little closer…letting his free hand lightly touch your waist. You play coy and back up a little. It looks like he’s about to get his phone out before his eyes trail up and behind you. You’re wondering what he’s looking at until you feel a looming presence and a wide hand rub against your back and shoulder.

“There you are, gorgeous. I thought you’d forgotten about me.”

Your jaw clenches into a tight, fake smile. That accent. You look up at your uninvited guest.

“Hello, Ves. I’m sure I have no idea what you mean.”

The cute guy you were talking to looks confused and maybe a little sad. Fuck! You facepalm and groan as Vessel waves to him nonchalantly. “Heya…alright, mate?” His voice is dripping in sarcasm. 

Your brain scrambles. “He just means I’d been up here for so long I forgot about the friend group” you say trying to save face. “Not just him. Definitely not.” Vessel squeezes your hip in feigned affection which makes the guy tsk, roll his eyes, and walk away. “Wait, I’m serious,” but he’s already gone. You scoff, ready to pummel Vessel who was easily a head taller than you and more than capable of overpowering you if you tried. You actually liked that guy and thought something was there.

“What the fuck was that?” You ask, eyes shooting daggers into Ves. 

He snorts and shrugs. This is no big deal to him. “That guy was a loser.”

“So?! What do you care?”

“Oh come now, babes. You would have annoyed that bastard to death…he could have never kept up with you.” That shit eating grin. God you could just slap it right off of him. You know that he would leave you alone if you just…didn’t respond. Ignored him. But something kept telling you to egg him on. To react.

“You’re such a dick,” you say, rolling your eyes and walking away. You make it halfway across the bar when he grabs your arm. 

“HEY! I came over to talk to you. Don’t walk away from me.”

“Wow, and how inviting you seem right now! Sabotaging my night and grabbing me. Is this the only way you can get girls near you?”

His brows knit together and he stands closer to you…so much so you’re looking straight up. “Sabotage? Did you like him that much? If you really, really wanted to go home with him tonight then why are you here with me? Also…” he leans down to whisper, “I didn’t have to do much pulling and prodding to get to you mine last week.”

“What the fuck do you want” you sneer. But you find yourself wanting to stay put. The warmth radiating from his tall form. His cologne. The intensity of his gaze. Your attempt at a makeout session last week suddenly replayed in your head very loudly. You snap back to reality when Vessel huffs with a terse laugh and looks away. 

“I hate to say it but…I wanted to ask you something. Ask you…for something…again.” You search his face for understanding. He can’t even look you in the eye but you can tell he’s humiliated. Tail-between-the-legs humiliated. Little-boy-caught-by-mommy humiliated. The pause is heavy. The ambient noise in the bar fades away when he looks at you. He tries to find words but they aren’t coming. “Fuck. Never…never mind, it's stupid. Have a nice night” He lets go of your arm and storms away. 

You’re left there with your jaw on the floor. Usually this tall arrogant nerd wouldn’t shut up giving you a hard time. Now he’s running away. Without thinking, you follow him outside the bar and call out. 

“Ves, what the hell was that?” You hate to say it but you actually feel concerned. Like you have to finally put down your senseless grudge and actually talk to him. “Are you ok?” 

He looks out down the street. It’s a busy Friday night. Folks bar hopping, getting Ubers, whatever people who like each other do downtown, but it feels like it’s just you two. Your eyes bore into him, and he finally looks down at you. Blankly, but at least he’s looking at you. “I know how we can make the…‘situation’ work. 

“Oh? Other than bothering someone else?”

“Do you know what? This is your problem. You’re mouthy and always antagonizing to try to keep some hold over me…and I want all of it. I need you to keep being that way with me. Please.” His voice has dropped to a gravely murmur as his hands shake in clenched fists at his side. 

You two stare at each other for a moment too long. It’s uncomfortably intimate. You’re having a conversation without speaking and it eats at you. You should not want this. Not again. Not him. “What do you mean?”

He fidgets. “Don’t make me say it.”

“Are you kidding? You’re really going to stand here and ask me for something again without defining any terms? Without playing your part in whatever this sick little thing is?”

“If it’s so sick then why are you blushing? You blushed like that when I kissed your neck in my flat. You’re like me. Come on.”

You cock an eyebrow, realizing slowly what he means. “You like this…don’t you? Being put in your place?”

“You haven’t actually done it yet, but…if you did…we’d all feel better. Even if for a brief moment. An hour. An evening. Just…please,” he takes on that same pleading…groveling tone again. He means it. “I can’t…for lack of a better word and I know it’s stupid but…I can’t ‘show up’ and turn my brain off if we’re…equals or something.. So please…where do I belong? Tell me.”

The idea that this…dummy who antagonizes you wants to submit to you breaks your brain. But wait. 

“How did you even know to ask me about this, hm? Did you ask around…maybe even try to snoop on my socials?” Your voice isn’t harsh, but it isn’t gentle. Strict. Probing. 

The way he looks down and rubs the back of his neck, which suddenly looks biteable, is adorable. He gulps. “I uhm…I’m sorry…but I..”

You bite your lip and chuckle as he shifts from one foot to another. A couple walks past and gives you both a once over, which makes you stand closer to him. If he wants to feel claimed, you can try. Being in his personal space where everyone can see.

“I uhm…I heard you talking not too long ago…about…” he lowers his voice “about subby guys and…well..”

“Wooooow….so… been eavesdropping, eh, bub?”

He opens his mouth and only a little whimper comes out. “I’m so sorry.” He keeps looking down, but you reach up and guide his chin so he looks at you. 

“What a resourceful boy…” you say in a sticky sweet voice. “You were just dying to find something out to the point that you decided to sneak around? Was it fun? Little puppy sniffing around for clues…hm?”

Oh the blush that covers his face. The way his eyes sparkle. You know exactly when he overheard you wax poetic about submissive men to your friends at that party…because you knew he was there. You wanted him to hear…because you had your suspicions too. “Answer my question. Dig up your bones for me…did you have fun with your little secret mission?” 

He breaths shakily and bites his lip. Finally he nods…and gives you a big cheeky grin. “Yes ma’am.”

“Eh don’t call me ‘ma’am.’ Makes me sound old.”

“Oh sorry sorry uhhh I don’t mean to…”

“Ves…my goodness…it’s ok. You didn’t know.” You chuckle softly and feel like you’re looking at him for the first time. “Don’t be hard on yourself. And that’s my first order for you.” 

His back straightens a little and his pouty lips curl into a shy smile. “I can do that.”

“Good boy.” You can see his pupils dilate…his breath catch…his heart swell. Oh to be your good boy even though you despise him. 

Something inside you has snapped. Suddenly this insane “mutually beneficial” arrangement excites you. Having casual sex with someone you don’t like in the name of “some fun” was ok, but seeing now that he was naturally submissive made your head spin. This you could work with. 

“I will take a crumb. Honestly. Anything you’ll give me…even if this is the last time we talk about it and it falls through again…”

You put your hand up to stop him. “Stop that.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He winces when the word leaves his mouth. 

You smirk and brush his hair back a bit. Your nails lightly scratching his forehead. He wants to purr. To roll his eyes back and feel your nails all over him. 

“Look at you,” you whisper, letting your nails trail over his cheek. “Such a big baby. Aren’t you?”

“Let me take you home…please. Please…”

“No. Hmm. No, I don't think so. Not tonight.” 

He pouts a little bit but nods. “Yeah…yeah ok.”

“Mhm…be patient for me. Can you do that?”

He nods and bites his lip. You can tell he’s excited. “When we’re not like…playing or whatever…you don’t have to treat me any differently. It can be our secret. As we were, yeah?”

You take your time with this. You two rarely see each other as it is and like hell you’d mess with him in front of others. So things develop over texting and the occasional late night phone call…but usually texting. Talking on the phone leads to tone policing. Arguments. It’s best to just keep things borderline anonymous. 

Ves: are you too busy for me?

It was 10 pm. You were drinking wine in your underwear watching Scream. Technically, yes, you were busy. But you knew why he was texting and maybe it would be fun to indulge. 

You: I guess not. What do you need?

The response is instant. He was waiting for you.

Ves: nothing really. 

Ves: just wondering about you 

You: what about me?

Ves: what you’re doing. what you’re wearing. if I’ll ever actually get to be your good boy. feels like you want me at arms length all the time. Is that part of the fun for you?

What seemed like a fun flirty conversation has now turned somewhat emotional. You sigh, desperate to get things back on track. As you try to formulate a response, you get…oh.

The video’s thumbnail is dark, but you open it anyways. You hear blankets rustling and music being turned down as it becomes clear what he’s sent you. He’s laying on his back in bed; the blanket is pushed down to right below his belly button. You’ve never seen him shirtless…and now that’s all you want to see. Yeah he works out but he looks soft. Kissable. You can imagine how fun it would be to kiss down his neck to his tummy, telling him how pretty he is…making him feel small and fuckable. He starts talking…you can tell he’s nervous.

“Maybe this is too needy…too pathetic…I don’t know” he strokes his free hand mindlessly up and down his stomach, “but you like this. Maybe you want me to act out. Just tell me…please… Do you want me like this? Desperate…completely stupid…” As his voice trails off, he moves his hand down to his blanket-covered waist and palms…

“Oh shit,” you whisper as the outline of his cock comes into view and he speaks again. 

“I want you to want this…please…can I be needy for you?” The video ends just as he lets out a soft, breathy whimper. 

You compose yourself…or try to…and respond. 

You: look at you. Are you comfy in that big bed?

Again, the response is instant. 

Ves: yeah but I’m lonelllyyyyy. 

You: just pretend it’s me, sweetheart.

Ten minutes pass. Wait. Why are you sad he didn’t respond? Why do you care? Why…*ding ding*

Ves: ok, I did it. did I do good?🥺

Another text. A picture. What. A. Sight.

His hand concealed his now flaccid cock… but fully on show was his cum covered tummy. You choke back a moan and grasp your blankets. At this point you’ve forgotten who you’re texting and quite frankly you don’t care. 

You: such a good boy 🐶 you’re a hot mess, aren’t you? 

Crickets. Fucking. Crickets. You don’t hear from him for three days. You keep telling yourself it’s ok and not worth thinking about because you hate each other. It’s just mindless fun. Nothing personal. But then…it dawns on you. You’re technically in charge. 

You: come over  Ves: why? You: why do you think? be here at 8. don’t be a brat  Ves: 🧎‍♂️🐶 see you at 8

Right on the dot, he’s there. You’re hoping this doesn’t end the way it did last time. Necking in his lap before you came to your senses. But the energy is different. He stands close to and studies your face.

“What should I call you? When we’re…you know?”

“What feels natural? Other than ma’am…” you chuckle. Aw. An inside joke. 

He bites his lip and blushes. Why is he doing sweater paws with his hoodie? Such a slut. 

“I can think of one but…” he stammers, “not quite brave enough yet to use it.”

“That’s ok.” Your hands drift up to his chest, where you start to play with drawstrings of his hoodie. “Let me get you some water…do you need a snack before we get started?” 

He considers for a bit but shakes his head. “I can wait until you’re done with me”

You suppress a whimper. He’s in his subspace for you. Get it together. Also, easily entertained much? 

All he said implied was that he’d need sustenance after whatever you do to him because you’ll use him for all he’s worth. Very normal! Not worth whimpering over! “Let me show you my bedroom.” 

You gently pull let the hoodie’s drawstrings bounce as you let go of them. When you step inside your room he chuckles a little.

“Squishmallows eh?”

You give him a playful sneer, although any other time you would have laid into him. “Better get comfy with them if you want to do this.”

He’s already on the bed, shoes kicked off. He grabs one that looks like a shark and holds it to his chest. “Genuinely…your bedroom is really cozy. Thanks for having me over.” He says this as if it was any other conversation, but then he licks his lips a little. “I’m just going to lay here until you need or want me to do something. Is that ok?”

Well. You’re already straddling him before he can finish. “What have you been doing the past three days…hm?”

“I uh…” he stammers and looks up at you with watery puppy eyes. “Working. But…there were some things I didn’t do…”

“Yeah like talk to me.”

“Tsk. Stop. Just because we’re doing this doesn’t mean I’ve become a complete nympho. Honestly.” He rolls his eyes and looks away. “I was going to text you tomorrow anyways. I haven’t touched myself since that night we texted…haven’t…” he shifts under your weight and you feel a slight throb.

“Oh…is three days a long time for you? Hmm?”

He chuckles a little and squeezes the shark. “It’s…” he snorts when he laughs and hides his face. You move his hands and he chuckles a little more. What a beautiful sound. You realize you could recognize it anywhere and be better for it. “Yeah yeah yeah. It's been a long time for me. It’s usually everyday. Twice.”

“You gave up…six orgasms…for me? Of your own free will?”

“I wanted to do eight, gorgeous. I really did. But you texted and…”

“Well who said you were cumming tonight?”

He takes a deep breath and his eyes roll back a little. “My mistake.”

“No no no.” You lean down and kiss his forehead. “You did the right thing. Saving yourself up for me.” Your kisses trail down to his jaw. Fuck his soft and smooth. You gently nip at his earlobe and chuckle softly as he whines with pleasure. “You know what you are?”

“Hmm?” He lets out hazily. 

“A good boy. A good puppy. Coming when called. Obeying.” Your nose trails against his and you think for a second that this will be a repeat. You two will snap out of it. But he squirms again and pouts.

“I can be so good…please…”

“I’m not even doing anything to you yet…”

He groans as you slide off him and start palming his crotch. 

“Do you know how many times I got off thinking about that video you sent me?”

His cock bobs against your touch as he groans pathetically. “N-no…no idea. It wasn’t much…” 

You start to stroke him. Oh he’s needed this. His hips buck up into hand as he white knuckles the stuffed shark. Mumbled pleas fall from his pretty lips as you ask him what he’s hiding in his sweats. Your fingers slide under his waistband. His moans are whiny and whimpering. 

“Such a puppy.”

You slide his sweats and underwear slowly…just enough to free his cock. You gasp aloud. “Oh my goodness…Ves…look at you. Look. HEY.” You snap a bit to get his attention. His head is lolling back and you haven’t even touched his uncovered cock yet. “I said to look.”

He looks down and groans again as your manicured hands stroke him. You bite your lip and think about how exquisite it’ll feel inside you. The shark squishmallow is put to the side, and he comes up on his elbows. “Mmm..mm…your hands are so pretty. S’soft. Fuuuuck.” Your strokes are gentle and steady. His hips buck to control the pace but you gently flick his tummy. 

“Good boys don’t take.”

He pouts and settles into your bed. He seems to be enjoying himself. His legs twitching, his moans coming more often than not. But you wanted to play. You wanted his brain off. For now he was yours. You stop stroking. “Ves. Look at me.”

He whimpers when you stop and raises his head. The whimper turns into a strangled sob as the long string of spit from your lips coats the head. Your slow, teasing, wet strokes make his face contort like he’s sobbing. “Fffffff….uuuuCK! M-m-mmmm…mommy please.” You freeze and look up at him. 

“What was that?”

His face is all panic. “Oh my god oh my god no I’m sorry. It just slipped out…I’ll…fuck…no I’m so sorry.”

You lean forward and shut him up with a tender kiss on the lips. You allow his hands to trail over your ass and breasts, letting his touch linger a bit too long over your nipples. When you pull away, he’s blushing like crazy with hazy, dreamy eyes. “You’re such a good boy,” you whisper.

“T-thank you…mommy.” 

You slip out of your clothes and relish in his gaze. For the first time you don’t feel like he’s here to be your biggest critic…and you don’t need to mouth off to him. He looks at you with a dopey little grin. “Are you going to use me?”

You chuckle softly as you straddle him again. “You could say that. Make you my little boy toy. Would you like that?”

His whimpering keeps him from answering, probably because you’re teasing the head of his cock with your already wet pussy. “God…please use me. Please…it’s what I’m good for…I’ll make you so happy mommy I promise…please!!”

You blush and forget yourself for a bit when he brings one of his hands to his face. He looks adorable. He needs to be held. He needs kisses. “Give me a hand, puppy. Hold yourself still.”

He reaches down and holds his cock as you slide down. He hisses in pleasure and whines as you moan from the stretch. You grasp his chest as his cock disappears into your pretty pussy, your head thrown back and mouth wide open. Vessel’s breath is coming hard and fast as he touches you. He’s bottomed out inside you and he doesn’t dare move. You haven’t told him to. He needs to be good. The past three days won’t have been worth it if he fucks this up. 

You reach back and pat his thigh. “Bend your legs, puppy.”

“Yeah…yeah ok…” he groans out as he obeys. One hand holds his waist while the other trails under his hoodie. He whimpers and bites his lip as you toy with his nipple. 

“Lift your hoodie.” He lifts it only to expose his stomach but stops there. You tsk and pull it up so his chest is uncovered…mmm. “Look at my pretty boy…” you whisper as you kiss across his chest. You take in the warmth and natural scent of his skin…how he tastes under your little licks across his nipples…the texture of his skin between your teeth. A delicious chain reaction occurs when his cock throbs hard against you after leaving teeth marks on one of his pecs. “You’re being so good. I didn’t even have to tell you what to do.”

He looks at you hazily. You’ve only been cockwarming him, and he’s already empty headed. He nods dumbly but then yelps when your pussy clenched around him. 

“Tell me what you thought about that night…when you made the video.”

He gulps and holds you close to his chest. His cock is buried in your tight pussy but he doesn’t dare move.

“I..heh…I thought about being your seat. Your human mattress.”

You kiss and suck on his neck, admiring the red marks already decorating him. “Oh? You like being squished?”

“I thought about something like this. But you’re…you’re fucking me. You lay on my dead weight and then…” his cock throbs inside you and he whimpers.

“Shh I know,” you kiss his temple and nuzzle his face gently. “It feels so fucking good, huh? You like being under me like this?”

“Mhmmm…so safe…mm soft…fuck!” He holds on to you like he did with the shark plushie, his fingers pressing into your flesh desperately. He grits his teeth as he throbs inside you and whines. “Y-y-you’re so…tight. What the fuuuuuck.”

All this time you’ve been covering his face with kisses, grabbing his chin every time he tried to hide from your affection. His heels dig into your bed as he tries to keep himself from squirming and fucking you.

“Can you be still? Hm?”

“Ye…yeah. Yeah sorry…you just…aahhhh fuck…”

“Use your words, Vessy.” 

His eyes roll back and his back arches slightly. “Don’t call me that…makes me feel little…”

“I do have you pinned down…don’t I? You’re the one squirming.”

His eyes are glassy as he pouts. “Are you enjoying this? I…I…don’t feel like you are…”

You consider this for a second. 

“I don’t want to keep going if you’re not…” His eyes are desperate. “You need this too…fuck…please tell me you need this. You want this right? Please I’ll make you feel so good…if you just bounce on it a little. Please please…I’ll be such a good boy. You can lay on me and…and…I’ll just be a toy. I can take it…let me show you.” 

You don’t even realize you’ve started fucking him. Your hips roll gently, and he lets out an almost pained moan. His hips meet yours and your eyes roll back.

“Fuck…puppy…” your head and vision go a bit fuzzy as he bucks into you and…oh dear.

“Shit shit shit…I’m…I’m sorry…I’m cumming…baby…baby…” he bites his lip and looks up for reassurance as his hands mash you down further on his cock. He hates that he came so fast, it’s clear, but fuck it feels good. 

“It’s ok…cum for me…” you whisper. 

He lays back and catches his breath. You don’t move…his spent cock still trembling in your pussy. He whimpers pathetically.

“What’s wrong?” You ask. He’s clearly not just coming off his high. 

“Fuck I just….” He closes his eyes. “That’s so embarrassing. We barely did anything and I just…came like a fucking virgin. Go ahead.” He covers his eyes with his arm, “make fun of me. Tell me how pathetic I am.” Wow. He already wants to go back to normal.

“No. I don’t think I will.” 

You’re still on top of him. Cockwarming him. You gently move his arm and look at him softly. His lips twitch. Not to kiss you, but to try and smile. 

“You feel nice on me,” he whispers. “I really like your body. Even…even before we started this. Thought you were pretty.”

You chuckle a little and rest your chin in your hand. “Not sure why.”

He rolls his eyes. “Do you know why I hate you?”

You shake your head and let out a little laugh. 

“It’s because you’ve made me realize I don’t have to be miserable. That I could be someone to someone else. But that requires…change. Taking care of my…stupid self. Being better. I can’t have you. You don’t want me as I am. Honestly. I’m a wreck. It’s better for you to hate me and only see me as a plaything.”

His hands trace lazy patterns on your back. How strange it is to have this conversation while he’s inside…but that doesn’t bother you as much as his confession does. 

“Vessel. Jesus. I…Ves…I can’t stand you because you’ve never been nice to me. And now you’re saying it’s because you like me too much, yet not enough to get over yourself?”

He winces and sniffs. “It would be easier, getting over myself, rather than trying to not feel something for you.”

You move his face so he’s looking at you again. “Do you want to leave,” you ask. “You don’t have to stay longer than you want.”

Ves cups your face and tries to steady his breathing. “No. No, I don't want to leave. I want to stay and pretend I’m not me for just a little while. Is that ok?” You stare at each other…your breathing syncs…your eyes search other’s face. He strokes your face and purrs softly as his cock begins to stiffen again. Each time it throbs, you whimper, which in turn makes him chuckle softly. His hand slides down to your ass. “I need you. You’re the only one I want to…be with like this.”

“You don’t want this with someone you love.”

His eyes bore through you. He huffs and bites his lip, leaving an indention you swear would break skin. “May I please…may I please fuck you again? Properly. The way you deserve.”

You gasp softly and nod. “Would you like to be on top, puppy?”

His inhale is shuddering and sharp as he nods dumbly. You slide off him and lay beside him on your stomach. Ves seems confused.

“A-a-are you sure? From behind?”

You nod and beckon him closer. He slides off his sweats but you tell him to keep the hoodie on. “How hard are you for me?”

Leaning against you between your legs, he lightly taps his cock on your ass. It’s heavy and feels warm against your curves. He kneads your plush ass and whines a little. “So lucky…I am such..a…lucky…fucking…boy….fuuucckkkk.” He presses into your gushy pussy with a long, pathetic moan. You press against him, and his grip on your hips becomes shaky. “GOD you’re so hot….fuuccckkkkkk.”

You chuckle and moan as he thrusts gently…just trying to create some friction without completely losing his mind. He leans down and you feel the draw strings of his hood tickle your back. You reach behind you.

“What is it?”

“Come here, puppy,” you whisper softly. When he does you’re able to grab the drawstrings…anything to keep him in place. Leash him. Your fingers grip the collar of his hoodie now, and he collapses into you. “You going to be good? Stay right here for me, hm?”

He can’t even speak…he just lets out whimpers and moans that sound like sobs. You can only gasp with each thrust as he blubbers about it feeling “so..so..so..fucking good.” He whines into your shoulder as you pull him closer but the hoodie. “Please…let me…let me touch…please…”

“Mhm…” you let out weakly as he ruts into you. His hand trails down and under you towards your clit. You buck back into him as his nimble fingers find your clit. Cumming on your tummy never came easy, but with an eager lover, you think now it could happen. No matter who’s fingers it was rubbing your puffy clit between his fingers. 

“Mm…baby…baby let me bad. Please I know…i know…i know… I’m good boy but please let me bad…”

You grip your pillow and groan as your pussy quakes around his long cock. He takes this and your slutty, high pitched moan as consent. He takes your wrists in one hand and grips them roughly. You would be concerned about bruises if you weren’t seeing stars from the way his cock’s head rubs against your g-spot. He lets out something like a growl as he fucks you faster and harder. You’re mashed into the bed and cumming for the second time as he grabs you tight and bites your shoulder. You yelp and moan pathetically.

“Ves you’re so bad….you’re so…fucking naughty….” You’re cumming again as you lift your ass like you want him to mount you even deeper. He takes a break just to feel your orgasm squeeze him and to catch his breath. You let go of his hoodie, and he quickly rips it off. A sharp spank lands on your ass…he hisses with pleasure as he watches the skin of your ass cheek pinken before he lands another on you. 

“May…may I roll you over…please” he asks as he pulls out of you and rolls you over. It’s almost adorable how he toes the line between the asshole you know and a precious submissive boy. He spreads your legs, putting one up against his chest as he presses his cock back into you. One hand grasps your tummy and the other holds your ankle for leverage. “You’ve ruined me…” he moans as your name falls from his lips. Over. And over. And…over. He nibbles and kisses your ankle as he presses hard on your squishy lower tummy. His gasps come hard as it’s quite clear he’s reaching his limit.

“Ves…you’re gonna make me…fuck…I’m…”

“That’s it. Please…I want to see it…I need it…you’re so …ffffucking gorgeous….” he grabs you harder and rams into you with a powerful groan, his eyes wild as he exhales and bites his lip. “You’re…you’re going to cum…so….FUCKING hard on me…you won’t be able to cum again without thinking about me…Fffffuuuhhh”

His face contorts as his second orgasm ripples through his entire body. The thrusts become short, hurried bumps against your pussy as your back arches. You begin to rub your clit in rough, hurried circles as he fucks his cum hard into you. His eyes are misty as he mumbles about what a pretty angel you are…how good you’re taking his dick when…oh god…

A few moments later, he’s pulled out of you, looking down at the mess you made. You had never…ever squirted. And this…well…Vessel did that. You had no energy to hate. To be mean. Everything was different now. “I…wow…”

“Ever done that before?”

You lay back and catch your breath, wiping your watering eyes, shaking your head. “No…so…thanks I guess.”

He rubs your thighs and chuckles. “You’re amazing. Do you know that?”

You smile up at him and chuckle.

“Christ, what?”

“You’ve ruined it.”

“Oh…fuck off..ruined what?” He laughs and runs his fingers through his hair.

“My plans to die alone and hate you forever…thanks a lot.”

“Likewise, sweetheart.”

[hughiecampbelle]

Baby Blue (Billy Butcher Oneshot)

Character/s: Butcher

Word Count: 1,014

Requested: Butcher fic request with Descriptions 16 (sing) and 43 (thunder and lightning) and Dialogue 5 (You're staring)? love your writing!!! - anon

A/N: My love!!! Thank you for requesting!!! My mind immediately went to the fluffiest place imaginable!! I love writing about storms and nature and the weather, I feel like I could describe it a thousand different ways, it brings me so much joy!! I hope you like it :D Feedback is always appreciated!! 💜💜💜

Requests are open! 🔮

The thunder bashes her fists against the apartment windows. Tonight, she and her twin throw their duel tantrums. You are restless, checking the baby monitor, making sure they’re still asleep. Tossing and turning, he sleeps soundly beside you. Stonelike, dead, you watch his back rise and fall, thankful he is still breathing. Thankful he is still around. The rain falls in sheets. You can hear it crash into the pavement below you, the streets and sidewalks, alongside the midnight traffic. Everyone rushing to get out of it, to get home, somewhere familiar and dry and warm. The lightning flashes for a moment, a second, illuminating the bedroom. There’s no hiding from him. The room is messy. Laundry sits overflowing from the basket. His clothes are left in a trail leading to the bed. He’d gotten home an hour ago, maybe two, exhausted. He climbed in beside you, falling asleep quickly. There are toys, and clothes, and shoes strewn across the place. A suitcase sits opened, empty, by the closet. You haven’t packed yet.

You wanted one more night.

You don’t realize you’ve fallen asleep until you wake up to the sound of crying. You pull the blankets back, moving quietly, not wanting to wake him, to disturb him. Through the hall, you find your way to the nursery. Butcher painted it for you before the baby was born, a soft sky blue. It was comforting then, but in the heart of the storm, it seemed dreary. Dreadful. He put together the crib too, swearing when he lost a tiny little screws, apologizing later. It made you laugh, though. He was so worried about being a bad influence. He even bought him a stuffed bulldog you both decided to name Terror. Terror slept in the crib with the baby. After two years, he’s been loved deeply. His missing button eye and frayed ears are proof of that. The baby wails, kicking his feet from under the blanket, fussing. Between sobs they call for you, their baby talk interrupted by gasps for air. You pick him up, hushing him, rubbing his back and reassuring him it would be okay. He was safe. The storm could not reach him. You stood by the window, showing him how the rain fell down the glasses. They're racing, you told him, showed him. Against your chest and shoulder, his body moved with his hiccups.

Butcher called your name. He sounded sleepy, urging you back to bed. When the baby had calmed down enough, when he was soothed enough, you walked back to your bedroom. You brought Terror, too. You placed him in between you, watching him smile up at Butcher. Your whole world was wrapped in this bed, this room. Outside the world was dark, brutal, unforgiving. The trees swayed in the wind, pulled to one side, the leaves torn from their mother's branches. Something in your breastbone spread, a kind of hurt one could only feel watching this sort of thing. You turned your attention towards Butcher instead. He shook Terror, barking for him, “biting” his chubby cheeks. The baby laughed and squealed. It was your favorite sound.

You listened to the thunder, the screaming, the fight she was putting up to be heard. You understood. You didn't like that it had scared him, the baby, but you got it. A begging to be believed. A sort of desperation. That's what everyone wanted. Lying on your side, you watched them, wanting this to last forever. Despite the bags under his bloodshot eyes, Butcher was all easy smiles. He whispered to the baby, afraid of anything louder. He placed his hand over their chest, feeling the flutter of their heartbeat. In return, he watched him, his bright, wide eyes taking him in. The baby cooed his name: DaDa, DaDa, DaDa. Drool seeped through Terrors ear as he spoke. His teething was coming to an end. You were grateful for this.

You're staring, Butcher says a little louder, pulling you from your thoughts. Sorry, you say, though you're not really sorry. His hair sticks up in all different directions. He's got a boyish quality to him you've always loved. He prides himself on having a hard outer shell, impenetrable, but the second he sees you and the baby, he melts. He's not as bulletproof as he likes to believe. Between you, the baby falls asleep eventually. You watch as you have watched Butcher: their chest moving up and down beneath his onesie. Neither of you talk, not wanting to ruin the moment. It's not often you get to do this: sit in silence, be in one another's company. It isn't often Butcher is content, serene. Instead he fills the space with jokes and quips. He doesn't do well without noise. He doesn't try it this time, though. You're wondering the same thing: how many more of these moments will you get?

Tomorrow, when the sun rises, he will go back to work. When he gets home, you won't be there. Neither will the baby. You will do as you have been instructed. You will pack a light. You will pack enough. You will get out of the city while there is still time. He's kept your family secret long enough, but Homelander is looking for you. He is looking for any excuse, any soft spot, any vulnerability to take Butcher down. You won't call, or text. You'll use another name, a different one, and you will disappear. If, not when, it is over he will find you. You're not sure how, but he promises he will. Everything he wants to say, every apology and fear and worry, they go unsaid. Not safe, but selfishly he wants to believe so. Foolishly, he wants to tell you not to go, not to leave him. That'd be silly. That'd be stupid. If you want your son to grow up, this is the only way to ensure that. He doesn't want to ruin the moment. Instead he fights off sleep, wanting to savor the moment a little longer. You and Baby Billy, together with him.

[villainbait]

Unexpected Inspiration

Pairing: Rafayel x reader Rating: E | Explicit | 18+  Tags: stalking, flirting, obsessive behavior, obsession, fantasizing, fantasy bondage, implied non-con Summary: Even though you’re not her, it would be all too easy and Rafayel plans to take full advantage of the situation. However, you don't play along quite like he planned. Word Count: 700~

A/N: I saw someone posting headcanons about rafayel stalking MC and it gave me an idea. This is just sort of me studying his psyche in a different way that's a bit darker. Hope you enjoy and thank you for reading. ♥

“I know, I know.” Rafayel whines, his lower lip jutting out even though the person on the other end of the line couldn’t see it. “I said I know, alright? I’ll stay away from her until the time is right like I promised. Don’t be such a killjoy.” 

He was standing outside the art shop, debating whether or not he wanted to paint. Everything had seemed so dull lately after seeing her on campus and he was desperate for anything to catch his eye. In fact, he had replayed the glimpse of her so much he was starting to hallucinate as he watched you hurry towards him before turning sharply and entering into the shop. Fate had never been that kind, but today she was cruel.

“Gotta go.” He hangs up the phone abruptly and follows you into the art shop, brushing his bangs from his eyes with a practiced gesture.

You weren’t her and a pang of disappointment shot through his gut. Yet, you looked so much like her that the two of you could've been sisters in this lifetime. As he followed you around the modest paint shop, he realizes that it has been hard for him to stay away from her and you…well, you came along at the perfect time. 

It was all too easy. 

You were looking at canvas options when he approached and asked what it was you wanted to paint. He could tell you thought he was attractive, but that was to be expected and he was unimpressed by your compliments. Though you shrugged off his casual touch, surely you were just shy. He made you laugh and could tell you were enjoying the unexpected interruption. 

However, after some flirting and fun banter he thought you’d be an easy mark.

But you just left. 

That bothered him. That irked him. He was put out by your soft rejection and easy dismissal. 

So he followed you, intending to soothe his injured pride, but something in the way you interacted with this cold, insipid world stopped him. He watched as you knelt to gently touch the petal of a flower growing in one of the many planters along the street, half-expecting you to pluck it. When you merely appreciated its violet beauty with the soft stroke of your finger before moving on, Rafayel hung back and found himself curious about a human for the first time in a long time. 

Rafayel was curious about you.

Rafayel dogs your steps over the next week and hits the jackpot, finding that you live in a quaint but cozy condo by the sea. He finds his thoughts dipping into dangerous territory, but he can’t seem to stop. In those brief moments he heard your voice over the last week, he couldn’t stop from imagining how you would sound writhing in pleasure underneath him. Would your cries be just as sweet? 

He slides his thumb idly across his lower lip just thinking about how you’d taste. How would you sound begging, desperate for release that he would continue to deny you? The mere thought of seeing you cry because of him made him more aroused than he’d been in at least a century. He knew you’d look so pretty all sprawled out and clinging to him, reduced to a needy mess that couldn’t even remember her name. 

The thought of you being tied up and helpless almost undid him as he leaned against the lamp post adjacent to your building entrance. Rafayel wondered what hues your pretty skin would turn once he unraveled you. Would your skin look mottled, an echoing pattern reminiscent of the foamy sea or would you simply flush a darker vermilion hue? How brilliantly those colors might translate to a canvas once he was done using your body as one. 

Feeling inspired, Rafayel continues to wait outside of your building, casually soaking in the waning sunlight and waiting to catch glimpses of you inside your apartment. For a while, he admires the way you set up your canvas on the balcony, preparing your paints with practiced ease before you finally sit down to stare out at the sea. 

He couldn’t clearly make out your expression from where he stood on the street, but the very fact you seemed to long for the same sea as he did made him want you with a sudden aching desperation. Rafayel had to have you. His mind made up, he saunters across the street, whistling a soft tune. 

There was no other way for this to end now. 

[adaptacy]

A little Johnny character study.

Warnings: Stalking, romanticized cannibalism, graphic gore, corpses, extremely fucked up mentality, unsettling stream of consciousness, a LOT of red flags, all around just a sickening version of Johnny as I attempt to solve the gaps in my understanding of him.

Seriously, if you're the kind of person who doesn't usually care about tags, this is one of the ones where you maybe wanna give them a glance.

He'd met her at a bar. Well- 'Met' was a loose term. She'd caught his eyes at a bar. She was pretty, but not special. He'd seen pretty before. She was talkative, but not interesting. He'd heard talkative before. And yet she'd still caught his attention.

But she hadn't heard his voice. He never did take a seat next to her, never did buy her a drink, never did take her home. But he watched. Watched as she finished her last drink, just sober enough to manage her drive back home, but too tipsy to notice the truck trailing behind her the entire way back. Too tipsy to notice it parked on the side of the road when she entered her home.

He'd stopped at the kitchen window, knowing it was far too dark out for her to possibly notice him. He watched as she flicked on the kitchen light, sorting through her fridge for something to eat. And then he left.

He found himself at her window often. When he needed to cool off. When she'd been on his mind. When he'd kidnapped a girl with the same eyes as her, with a similar shape as her. When he'd ripped into yet another meal, imagining it was her between his teeth. Imagining the sweet, metallic stench of her blood, the soft cries she'd release as he cut into her.

But all he did was watch. Watch as she twirled the cord of her phone between her fingers, chatting away with her mother. Watched as she ate another frozen dinner too late at night, all by her lonesome. Watched as she sat in front of a tv, curled up in her blankets as bloody images of fictional murders played on screen.

She didn't know fear. She didn't smell like fear. She didn't look like fear. But he wanted to introduce them. He wanted to see her lips tremble in terror as her face ran pale, he wanted to see her force her last breaths out in sobs, he wanted to see her shake beneath him, unable to beg for her life with anything more than gurgles, her words washed away by the blood filling her mouth.

But all he did was watch. He learned her schedule. Learned how she folded her laundry. Learned her favorite meal. Learned her nervous ticks. He could've had her.

He could've killed her.

He stood over her bed as she slept, silent and dangerous. She always put her spare key in the plant on her porch. Was she stupid? Oblivious to the dangers in the world? Unaware that she'd given him such easy access. And she slept, defenseless, helpless, inches beside him as he just watched. Watched the way her eyelids twitched, the way her shoulders shifted, noted every minute change in her breathing. He wanted to see it stop.

He wanted to see her lungs freeze. He wanted to feel her heart in his hand, wanted to taste her blood on his tongue, wanted to claw his way into her skin and hear her scream at the violation. He wanted her to run. He wanted to taunt her, he wanted to hold her as she desperately tried to squirm away from him. He wanted to watch her innocence disappear from her eyes, he wanted to watch as she gave in to the death he wrought upon her.

And he watched, but there was no fear. Nothing but peace. It made him angry. He could suffocate her where she lay. He could press his body against her as she tried to kick him off, he wanted to wrap his hands around her throat and feel her pulse weaken-

But he just watched.

And then he went home.

He'd pretend the woman in his basement was her. He'd drive his knife deep into the corpse, ignoring the stench of rotted blood as he added to the frenzied stabs. He'd pant, and heave as he jammed the metal in again, and again, and again. And he'd imagine her choking, coughing up pleas and apologies. And kicking at him, and suffering. He didn't know her name. He didn't need to.

He knew her character, because he'd watched. He knew her outside, and one day he'd know her inside, too. But for now, he sliced until he could see the grayed edges of her torn intestines, the flies around the corpse diving between the folds of the decrepit flesh at the chance for a new taste.

The skin of her face had already been peeled, and flies sat on the edges of the sockets where frayed edges of flesh had been left by Junior's shoddy sawing. That was fine. She didn't have a face. But she had the facial structure he'd dreamt of. And his imagination was good enough.

When he deemed himself satisfied, he removed his knife from where it was lodged in her softened liver and stood up, finding his hand wet with a strange, slick ooze. There wasn't any blood- not anymore. Just a strange, thin, diluted version of what once kept this woman alive. He shook his hand off and stood, wiping the blade of his knife off in the fabric of his shirt.

He used his foot to kick the body back into the position it had been, but he knew he'd ruined it far past being able to harvest anything off of the brittle bones. She was nothing more than a meal for the flies. And a terrible stench.

He hadn't fixed anything. No, he'd made it worse. He wanted to see her again. He wanted to see her expression when he revealed himself, lurking inside of the very place she deemed her safety. He wanted to hear her stammer as he crept towards her, asking who he was, begging for her life.

But he took a seat at the dinner table, once more being ignored even if he could feel the prying eyes on him. They knew he'd had another one of his fits, but they knew better than to ask.

Mashed potatoes for dinner. It left him thirsty. Left him lonely.

He didn't say anything when he headed into town, returning to the bar he'd met her at.

This time was different.

This time, he didn't watch. This time, he didn't wait. This time, he didn't fantasize.

This time...

"You look lonely, Darlin'. How about we fix that?"

"Oh? That's awfully forward. And who might you be?"

"The name's Johnny."

===

for clarification, no, he did not fuck the dead body. he just attacked it. pls dont get the wrong idea LMAO

[fatuismooches]

hi! i love how you write all the harbingers. i thought of an angsty-but-more-like-pining idea of reader falling for one of dottore's clones and not the original dottore. the reader is unaware of the clone situation and the clone (being the rascal he is) neglects to tell them about it (he also just doesn't like the idea of sharing). despite the insanity and callous nature of the clone, the two of them are in a relatively loving relationship.

the original dottore becomes aware of it and is insanely jealous of his clone, yet he can't dispose of the clone without garnering suspicion from reader. if reader happened to fall in love with a younger clone, the original dottore is even more annoyed: "how did they fall for my younger, imperfect self instead of the now glorious, flawless me?"

i'm curious to hear what you think about this idea and the antics the original dottore has to go through to get to reader and, hopefully, get them to love the current him instead of a mimicry of his past self.

The segment would probably meet you on one of his expeditions outside of Snezhnaya, how you managed to woo Il Dottore is anyone's guess, and really no one could ever figure it out. He wouldn't tell you that he is Dottore of course, it would lead to far more complications and he'd rather not deal with those. Is that selfish? Yes of course but what did you expect?

Eventually, it would get to a point where the segment would convince you to move to Snezhnaya because continuing a relationship halfway across the world isn't very fulfilling for either of you, and he can't keep sending letters by crow much longer before he actually goes mad from not being able to feel your touch, to hear your sweet voice and soft, reassuring kisses. However, the segment's change in behavior is kind of noticeable because all of a sudden he's the one who wants to leave the lab for general errands. This is for a few reasons.

One, to see you obviously, he tries his best to be discreet about it but, how can he not want to indulge in you when you're nearly at his doorstep? Finally, he has a reliable way of destressing after all the annoyances at his "work." Two, because of the slight chance that you may one day see one of his other selves and decide to speak to them believing that it is your lover. Now of course this wouldn't be good because your lover knows very well of the... tendencies of his other segments, they would probably want to pick you apart (like he did) and then hog your body and attention once they get used to you.

But still Prime would find out, he was once his segments too, he knows the quirks. However never once would he have thought his segment would have found love in his life. He knows his segments tend to do their own thing but this? Pure ridiculousness. It's funny because he would try to deny the segment's feelings for you, and therefore simultaneously deny his own feelings in a way. If the segment happened to be a young one, he'd write it off as his younger self being desperate for attention and acceptance. If the segment happened to be closer in age to him, well... he'd find some excuse!

Regardless, he doesn't believe it. But it's hard to deny reality, when he sees how happy you are with his segment, and he sees how happy his segment is with you. And he thinks, what about you has his segment so captivated? You don't really look to be worthy of his time, but he still knows his segment well and he knows you have to be something out of the ordinary for him to take interest. (Yes he stalks the two of you, but trust me he's not going to hurt you. You're just confused as to why your lover seems to be intensely eyeing random locations behind him.)

In the beginning, Prime Dottore feels no real attachment to you, rather it's a sort of feeling that he can't seem to stay away from. Curiosity? Maybe. Jealousy? Of course not. Prime Dottore would try to keep putting it out of his mind, he has far more important things to do that take interest in his segment's "toy" but your face pops up more often than not sometimes. However, eventually, he gives in and questions his segment as to what he sees in you. Said segment obviously doesn't want to answer but this is Prime. No one defies Prime.

Dottore would probably just show up in your house one day and you'd get a few mini heart attacks in the span of a minute - how did this man get in, *sees blue hair* oh it's my lover!, *realization* no it's not, *panic* there is a man eerily similar to my partner in my damn house. He'd be amused by your reaction which doesn't really help his case, but it's very similar to your lover's own reaction, which is comforting in a funny way. So while seem to be quite different, perhaps they share more similarities than they want to admit? Perhaps. Maybe.

Another thing I think would be funny is Dottore being his usual Dottore self and attempting to scare you off in the beginning, but you don't really have a reaction because your segment lover put you through a lot of this already. It really leaves him to think about how and what does he do because he's never been in a situation like this.

It would be more of Dottore trying to make you fall for him rather than the other way around, he has no need for such a frivolous feeling. Rather he wants to feel the pure satisfaction of making you love him. Unfortunately, it doesn't go that simply of course. He knows he's fallen too deep when he's in his lab alone, wondering what you're doing right now in your home, perhaps you're cooking? Or reading? Such a shame, if you lived here with him, he wouldn't need to wonder. He'd know. Wait. Live together??

It wouldn't just be Prime Dottore trying to do this, anything that catches their creator's attention is sure to draw theirs too, so it's kind of just a full package. Eventually you kind of just have a lot of blue-haired men examining the corners of your house for some reason. You hide behind your original lover while he shoots glares at his other segments, annoyed at how things have turned out. But oh well.

I've pondered a lot about this ask, and honestly, the whole concept is so delicious I don't even know if I can do it justice. I mean really it's TASTY. I write too much I think and this was all over the place.

[evenmyhivemindisempty]

tarot face cards for Boyd’s,?

Steve Murphy: The Tower. Steve goes through the *wringer* in Narcos. Him and Connie uproot themselves from Miami for a country where they don’t know the language or culture. Connie’s cat is immediately cat-napped and cat-murdered. Steve gets kidnapped. His partner is soft-betraying him. Connie leaves him and takes their daughter. People he likes die!! He has to make a lot of unpleasant choices that often don’t turn out great for him! Upheaval, tragedy, violence, and pain is sort of the name of the game for him here!

Donald Pierce: The Moon. Pierce is very insecure! Holbrook says as much in several interviews; Pierce desperately wants to project an image of strength and confidence, and as the film continues that pretense is gradually stripped away. He’s deeply anxious – Rice kind of has to kick him into gear later on, and he’s also pretty damn intuitive – he *did* easily track Logan down, he puts together the nurses’ plan, and he figures out quick that Caliban is stalling them.

Cap Hatfield: The Hierophant. Although Cap might not seem like the classic choice for this, I absolutely think he fits! He’s got an unwavering dedication to his family (and the sort of patriarchal structure therein), and he absolutely shares in a lot of the traditional values of the era… and his family specifically. He’s sweet, but he’s their little foot soldier!

Clement Mansell: The Lovers. Clement is always searching for a connection, whether that’s with Sandy, or Sweetie, or Raylan, or Carolyn. (And he will absolutely make huge, impulsive decisions for the people he likes too.) Clement is *always* attempting to reach out - emotionally, sexually, physically. He’s not very successful, but not for a lack of trying!!

The Corinthian: The Devil. Beyond the obvious, that Corinthian in the waking world indulges his appetites to excess (and he’s absolutely very materialistic), there’s also the fact that his entire character arc is permeated by an extreme sense of hopelessness. He’s trying to claw his way to freedom the entire season, and not ever really gaining much ground. He’s dependent on other people helping him (John, Ethel, Rose), and he’s bound by the knowledge of what will happen when Dream inevitably regains his power and comes after him.

Eli Klaber: The Fool. Despite Klaber being… what he is, there is also an undeniable innocence to him. He’s very trusting, very naive, and very hopeful! He wants to go on a big adventure with his boss! And his trigger-happy nature absolutely plays into this too. He’s ~spontaneous~! I even think he can fit with this card representing a lack of commitments despite his extreme loyalty to Voller - he’s someone that seems adrift in every other aspect of his life, and (accordingly to Holbrook) joined up primarily because he didn’t have anything or anyone else.

Ty Shaw: Death. Ty has to deal with a very sudden loss, and he actually does handle it really adeptly. He vows to get revenge, but he states pretty clearly that he’s not gonna stop trying to enjoy himself and live life. He isn’t in denial about what’s happened - he does let go in a lot of ways, embracing Ben into the family, designating Abby’s room the new guest bedroom. And there’s something in that his story in the movie begins and ends with two different deaths.

Quinn McKenna: Justice. I get the sense that justice as a concept is something that’s very important to Quinn. He tends to be sort of rigid in his sense of right and wrong, and this results in him sticking to his guns even when it screws him over. He doesn’t like lying, he doesn’t like when people lie to him, and there’s something interesting that despite the way the Government involuntarily commits him, he *still* joins back up later. At the end of the day he believes in the rule of law… but it’s also never gonna let that stop him from doing what he thinks is just.

[ineffable-endearments]

There seems to have been a little meta-commentary in Good Omens 2 about priorities.

Priorities? Is that the right term? Well, that's what I'm going with for now.

Anyway, there seems to be some meta-commentary about people's priorities being off. Aziraphale's priorities being off, with the whole cotillion ball. The audience's priorities being off.

Or maybe a better way to put it is that our priorities are premature. There's nothing wrong with them in themselves, but we've skipped some important issues that have to be addressed first.

Think about it - there are so many moments that look "fanservicey" on the surface, but that end up being problematic for the plot (the I'm Sorry dance), a moment of disconnect (the dance at the cotillion ball), or that simply foreshadow the sadness of the ending (Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy playing, but omitting the part about dining at the Ritz).

No, no, I'm not suggesting the creative team tailored an entire section of a story to address fandom trends; they were just telling the best story they could, universally, period. None of that stuff would be in there if it wasn't in the service of something much bigger. I'm also not suggesting that this commentary is a lecture, some sort of condescending finger-wag; more on that later.

But you can't deny that when all the pieces come together, the story resonates with that thing in us anyway - the thing in us that says, "I know it's Armageddon and I know the world is ending, but Aziraphale and Crowley really ought to have a romantic dance about it." And then the story tells us, "Nope. They can't do that yet."

Here's the other thing, though: even as it is told "no," that deep desire to see love as an action, love as the whole point, is validated. It is also treated with kindness and respect. Yes! Even through the sad ending of the season!

Through the dangers that Crowley and Aziraphale face in Season 2, the narrative patiently explains all the reasons why they can't be soft and romantic just yet. Their trauma histories won't allow it. Their world won't allow it. These are real, pressing problems. In fact, they're more real and pressing than I thought they were even in Season 1! Season 2 emphasizes just how much Crowley and Aziraphale were never going to get away from Heaven and Hell without a brutal fight of some kind. At the end of Season 1, I sometimes thought, "Oh, the great bureaucracy of the universe really doesn't care about these two, or even about Earth; if they really wanted to be together, they could be. And maybe Heaven and Hell will just lose interest in Earth." And Season 2 says, "Actually, here are a bunch of scenes demonstrating that they desperately want to be together, and here are a bunch of dangerous situations illustrating why they can't."

But at the same time, the love is there, in both Crowley and Aziraphale. Crowley loves Aziraphale so much that he can't think of anything but safety for their new way of life; Aziraphale loves Crowley so much that he simply cannot consider that they haven't arrived at their happy ending yet. That love is the beating heart between our narrative's wings, the purring motor* in our narrative's Bentley. It's there, and it matters. The love matters so deeply.

I don't know. Maybe "priorities" was not in fact the right word to choose at the beginning there. Because there is no implication that there is anything wrong with caring most of all about love. It's just that love is a complicated journey, and you can't skip over the journey part of it.

*(Not my metaphor. Originally from Amy Gravino; too good to leave out.)

[comfortless]

"held back by a leash that no one’s ever thought to untie, constantly growling and leaping at anything that gets too close just to simmer down to whimpering and begging the second he’s pet just once" ??? 😩 This is so real and relatable (I'm crying in the corner of my room). Lord have mercy, I need to kiss every ridge and groove on your brain.

The way I giggled when you mentioned his fleshlight is crazy. I was actually thinking of saying something similar but then I decided against cause the message would've been too long. I was trying to decide if he would be the type of man to get one of those insanely realistic sex dolls. Maybe he felt particularly desperate to have something in his bed (something that can't just get their clothes and leave before he wakes up) or he would just be curious. If he actually got it, by being impulsive, now he has this thing in his house and kind of regrets it. Yeah, it's soft and doesn't look bad, but it definitely doesn't look like a real woman either. It gives him the uncanny valley effect and puts it out of sight for now. How would he even get rid of something like that? Is it recyclable?

I've got brainrot when it comes to this man, I know. I might start reading Letters to Milena by Kafka so I can yearn more accurately for a man that doesn't even exist. This time I have no nice poems to quote but I feel like Konig is very much Sleep token coded. Idk what type of music you like but their lyrics are yummy.

P. S. Your fics are like vitamin D + Omega 3 getting me through this shitty British weather with my sanity more or less intact. Lots of consensual kisses!

oh my gosh and you are more brazen than me because i thought the same, just… kept that to myself!

if he has the money why would he settle on some little silicone tube when he could at least have something to cuddle up with, too? it isn’t like he has visitors often (or at all), though there are some nights when he definitely feels pathetic and disgusting for having it: haphazardly shoves the doll in the closet and settles for his hand instead…

also much to ponder in regards to his impulse control…! for the most part, he probably considers himself to be pretty rational; reasons with every decision by thinking well, x happened so then comes y. his dating life is shallow at best and utterly devoid of anything at worst, it’s… reasonable that he would have some sort of outlet, even if he knows that buying the damned thing has basically sentenced him to never having any sort of stable relationship. if some sweet woman actually gave him more than just the time of day, if she actually wanted to be with him but… she sees that mimicry of a woman’s warmth lying in his bed? she’s either laughing at him or immediately making up some excuse to leave. and if that happens, then of course he’s got to find a way to get rid of it. he’s tossing it in a hole in his backyard or burning it. sorry environment. this is König’s world now and the sex doll can no longer be in it..!

he would never pull something comparatively ridiculous in his career, maybe a few mistakes here and there but he plays a character when he’s König. and König is all menace or indifference, never the pitiful thing that gets so wound up over his own purchase he’s got to destroy it at all costs. though in the time that he did have it… the soldiers around him are certainly aware that he had some ‘girlfriend’ he spoke rather highly of at home that always had her legs open for him. he never seemed in higher spirits, though…

Letters to Milena is sooo quotable for him. i will give you this one: “Auch ist es vielleicht nicht eigentlich Liebe wenn ich sage, daß Du mir das Liebste bist; Liebe ist, dass Du mir das Messer bist, mit dem ich in mir wühle.”

i have an entire ridiculous playlist that is just… all over the place with songs that remind me of him, perhaps i will give Sleep Token a chance and throw a few onto it! ^^ i am always looking out for König-coded songs… Never Land by Sisters of Mercy is possibly my favorite to suggest when it comes to him. <3 the full length is my go to but - a fragment encapsulates it almost as well!

burying you in a world of hugs right now, anon! pleeease send your weather my way! it is HOT here! your messages are vitamin C and a lovely cup of earl grey to me! <3 i am glad that you appeared!

[paleweave]

enkiramus WIP under the cut as promised o7

There are some kinds of pain in this world that exist outside of description, that go beyond the capability of understanding and reason. They transform past agony until everything dissolves into a blank, all encompassing knowledge that it hurts. Enki is in pain, Enki hurts. Blood loss and shock are making the edges of his consciousness falter. He is aware that the pain is unbearable. A sense of relief floods him anyway. He is alive, and the pain is a blanket over all his other senses. He cannot feel the gnawing of hunger-- nor the dark that always plagues him in this place. He will miss the arm, but it’s a small price to pay for still being alive, still clinging to the damp existence his life has turned into. 

But it hasn’t ever been different from this— his life before the dungeon and his life in the dungeon are, fundamentally, the same. Always in the dark, clawing for the light, for knowledge. This is where he thrives. He can handle the pain, even if this brand of it is new to him. He can handle anything if it means finding the answers he is looking for. 

Heavy breaths disturb the air, thick, and still and suffocating-- he cannot tell if the shadows are moving because there is something in their inky depths, or if the oppressive darkness is playing tricks on him. If he were put into a position where he needs to defend himself, he would die. Patience is forced to override fear, to gather more knowledge before a conclusion is made. Strands of white gold peek from the gloom-- a parody of his own craggy, dirty, blonde, and he knows who lurks just beyond the light.

“Come out of the dark or slink back into it-- linger no longer, Nosramus.” There is blood rushing in his ears, soaking into his clothes and through the makeshift bandage and tourniquet desperately trying to keep a torrent at bay while the stump that used to be his arm heals. He thinks the alchemist says something, mutters words that do not reach him until he gets closer, and Enki can see his face.

Often, Enki had been called sickly, pale and rail thin and a step away from death… But Nosramus is pale like the moon-- stark bruises from too little sleep tug at his eyes, but they do nothing to shatter the ethereal beauty he carries. Nosramus is willowy and graceful, soft and beautiful is every place that Enki is sharp and cold. There might be a pang of jealousy— or something else that Enki refuses to name— were he to care about that sort of thing. 

“I didn’t want to startle you.” The alchemist kneels beside him, eyes lingering on the lost limb for a long, long moment. There is an emotion that passes over his face, that Enki cannot place. Something between guilt and curiosity, a sickening kind of enrapture. “It is a horrible thing… to lose a limb.”

[secret-bug-pain-blog]

@febuwhump Day 24 - "I'm doing this because I care about you."

To anyone looking at this from the Dungeon Meshi tag - if you're anime-only, HERE THERE BE SPOILERS! If you've read the manga, the MAJOR spoilers are for Chapter 28 - plus a scattering of spoilers for later. This is a scene rewrite! Like the first time we've posted "just canon but from a different POV" also! We are counting internal monologue for that dialogue, and we are having Fun with it.

Watch your step, and we hope you enjoy.

From the instant that Marcille draws the first line of dragon's blood, she knows that she's gone too far to back out now.

There's a dreadful, solid certainty lodged in her chest as she brings her staff down, again and again. An awful sort of knowing, of

It's a unique kind of draining. Mana sickness is one thing, but this is another. Each line draws at something deep, deep inside of her soul, drawing more from her than she ever thought a spell could drain. She wants, so badly that it hurts, a sharp, desperate need for this to work. She dips her staff's handle in dragon's blood again, and she ignored the awful feeling of being bled to the bone. She's only ever theorized about dark magic before, never put it into practice herself - every line feels wrong, sickly, diseased, her staff scraping along the flagstones and funneling awful vibrations into her hands.

Every line she draws feels like a wretched, sickly sort of pain. Like picking at a wound that's only halfway scabbed over, half-clotted blood clinging to her fingernails as she picks at where her skin meets a gash, and scraping off the tiny, disgusting pieces of not-quite-scab onto a piece of paper. It's the worst thing she's ever done, and she hates it, every step of it, with a bubbling sense of revulsion that it feels like she'll never be clean of.

If she doesn't do this, then Falin will be dead. And Marcille doesn't want to live in a world where that's true.

She doesn't know how many runes it'll take, really. She knows the pattern, and that's enough - she just has to finish it. One rune, then another. She doesn't need to know how long.

The world, for what feels like a long time, is just her and the runes.

One, then the next. The future doesn't matter. The past is gone. She inks rune after rune in rotting, thickening blood, pausing to re-ink her staff when it runs dry. The only thing that matters is the next rune in the sequence, and it doesn't matter how long it takes. She has a thousand years to live ahead of her, a thousand years to spend doing anything she wants - she doesn't care how many of them she has to spend doing this, if it gives her Falin back. One rune, then the next.

Marcille reaches to dip her staff in dragon's blood a last time, and stops.

The circle is done.

Marcille is already horribly, horribly tired.

More than tired, really. Exhausted, a bone-deep ache in her chest like she's worked out a muscle she never knew that she had. She feels like she's on the brink of passing out, staring down at a circle of dragonblood runes that she's worn her staff's handle down to fraying roots from. The purpose in her chest that was so strong barely a minute ago is fading, flickering. Fatigue knocks into her like a truck, and she's swaying on her feet, struggling to cling on to consciousness.

She knows, more than she's ever known anything before, that she has to finish this.

She thinks of Falin, and she steels her will to move forward.

Pelvis, femur, humerus. Twelve rib bones, easy to tell apart. The vertebrae, the hands and feet - calcaneus, metatarsal, metacarpal. Eight carpal bones in the wrist, hamate, triquetrum, pisiform, lumate, trapezoid, trapezium, capitate, scaphoid. Falin's wrist bones are shorter than hers, shaped different in a way that's both subtle and the most obvious thing in the world. It's all she can do not to stop and stare at them, hypnotized by the broken remains of her friend - tallman bones, white and clean, so unfamiliar compared to Falin's soft frame, so much like the ones she's already seen buried.

She doesn't know what she'll do if Falin's soul has already left her body. She can't allow herself to entertain the idea of it. Falin will live, because she has to live, because she needs to- because Marcille can't let her die.

She lowers her staff, and she starts to chant.

She's doing this because she cares about her. Because she can't live without her. Because the very idea of trying to go on without Falin, after all this effort to find her, after all this effort to bring her back, is poison on her tongue, fire in her veins, a sickly death in the pit of her stomach. She's doing this because she cares about her, because she wants to talk to her again, because she wants to talk with her, to eat with her, to sit shoulder to shoulder with her as she talks about magic again.

She's doing this because she cares about Falin, so badly that it feels like her heart's started to rip itself apart in her ribcage - because she wants her back, because she wants to talk to her again, because she needs to hold her hand again and press her palm against her cheek and tangle her lanky, bony body around her soft tallman chest and hold her so tight that nothing else exists in the world. She's doing this because she needs Falin, with such strength that it nearly feels like she's drowning in her own skin with every moment she's away from her. She wants, so badly that she can barely keep herself from crumpling on the spot under the sheer weight of it.

Falin. Falin. Falin.

She chants her name in her head with every repetition of the spell, wanting, hoping, begging for this to work. The drain feels like she's cut a hole in her very soul, like she's bleeding out her lips with every word she speaks, like she's slicing holes in the vessel that holds all of her being. Falin, Falin, Falin - her soul to her body, the dragon's flesh to her bones, anything to make her whole again, anything to make her well again, anything.

She draws from the well, again and again, driving herself on sheer, desperate desire. Falin, a silent cry beneath the chorus of the spell. Falin, a desperate wish whispered into the darkness of the dungeon. Falin, Falin, Falin, she cries out, again and again, blind and deaf but for the runes carved into the stone. Falin, Falin, Falin, Falin, Falin-

Marcille is more exhausted than she ever has been, more exhausted than she ever knew was possible to be- she tastes bitter blood on her tongue as she chants. She draws from the well deep inside of herself, draws until it's dry and then beyond that, desperation and need driving her on and on and on. Falin, Falin- she digs deeper, deeper, past the well and into the ground beneath. She wants, she wants, she wants-

"Falin..." she starts. The words flicker on her tongue, abruptly uncertain and unclear. She knew what she was saying only a second ago, but now she struggles to put anything to words. The chant fades out, the words leaving her tongue - she can't remember why she was chanting them anymore, can't remember what she was doing. Her limbs feel weak, bowing under her body's weight, her willpower abruptly draining. Her fingers loosen on her staff, suddenly void of all drive they once possessed. She looks down, bleary-eyed, at rusty red runes drawn for a purpose she can't quite remember, and for a moment, there is nothing to her thoughts but the dull echo of a desire nearly entirely devoured.

And then she is unconscious, and she thinks no more.

[abbatoirablaze]

Racing Stripes, Season 2, Chapter 4

Word Count: 1.8k

Warnings: angst, some harsh words.

“Charles Leclerc!”

Charles looked over the women, his eyes trying to hone in on someone who clearly wasn’t there.  He knew who he was looking for while he mulled over the decision of which woman he was going to bring back to his room for the week. 

But he also knew that the girl that he wanted wouldn’t be in the line up.  

No, she was raising Daniels’ twin girls, in Australia.

Sheila was done being a motorsports girl.

“Mr. Leclerc?” one of the stewards asked, breaking the young driver from his thoughts, “it is your turn to pick.”

“Mon Petit.” He said with finality as he found a woman who looked like she had enough kindness inside of her to let him forget the world with her.  She gave him a soft smile as she joined his side, “Parler vous francais, mon petit?” (do you speak French, mon petit)

“Oui!” she replied softly with a nod, before keeping her eyes trained away from him, “amis je dois vous prevenir, Charles.  J’ai un petit ami.”  (But I must warn you, Charles.  I do have a boyfriend.)

His brow cocked, “N’ai-je pas le droit de te choisir.” (Am I not allowed to choose you?)

“Vous pouvez!” (you may). 

“Allons y.”

She nodded, linking her arm around the drivers, as she followed him out of the choosing ceremony.  The two of them walked in silence, and while mon petit had been used to that sort of treatment, Charles suddenly found himself feeling insecure, but he didn’t speak to her again until they got into the car, “I’m sorry about making you speak French in there.  But some of the others are pretty nosy.  And the only other one that knows French that was left was Stroll.”

“Oh…I’m sorry.” She frowned, “is there-is there something that you wished to say?”

“Don’t apologize,” he offered politely, tapping her hand, “Can I-Can I be honest with you?”

“I would prefer that you are!”

“I don’t want to have sex with you!” he said quickly.  Her brows raised and he instantly back-tracked when he saw just how surprised she’d looked, “I mean-not that I don’t want to have sex with you.  Y-you are a very gorgeous woman.  Very beautiful.  It’s just that-I-I’ve been going through somewhat of an emotional breakup…I wasn’t in a physical relationship with someone but-“

“Charles,” she said gently, cutting him off as she put her hands over his and looked him dead in the eyes.  Suddenly, he felt free, not caring about how his words sounded, because he knew that he wouldn’t be judged, “you do not have to explain yourself to me.  My job means that if a driver chooses me, I do what is asked.  Whether it’s simply talking, or yes, being more intimate with them.  It’s my job.  But do not feel as though you owe me an explanation or anything.  I just let drivers know that I am in a relationship as a precursor, because when it comes down to it, he and I have open communication.”

“I just want someone to talk to me,” he all but whispered shakily, “I-I don’t understand how this is supposed to work. I mean, I thought that I did, and I thought that she was falling in love with me.  I mean, I was falling in love with her…and she…you have to know that we had a good relationship.  But then she got with Daniel, or rather, they’d been on and off together the whole time.  I-I don’t know…but she-Sheila-”

“I know of Sheila, Charles,” she sighed softly, keeping his hands in her own, “you do not have to explain your situation, Charles…she’s a friend…despite me being in F3 at the time, I’m aware of your relationship with her.”

“How do you make it work?” he asked suddenly, “H-how do you separate out the feelings when you have a boyfriend?  How is he okay with you sleeping with other men most of the year?  Or-rather, how is it that you two make it work.  I mean, Sheila and Daniel make it seem effortless…and Lando is seeing Sugar.  And Sebastian and his wife-”

“Charles…stop,” she begged, cutting the driver off.  He stopped speaking and looked at her desperately for answers.  She frowned and shook her head, “I-it’s not that simple.  I mean, every relationship takes work.  And with my boyfriend, he’s in Formula 3.  Up until this season, I didn’t know that I was being pulled up to F1…granted, last season I was in F2, but that’s because I was dating one of the guys then.”

“You didn’t?”

“Team principals vote on the girls when there is openings,” she informed him, “if your division is running short, they have the option to pull up girls from the other divisions, or trade girls around so it’s not the same offering to the drivers, all of that stuff.  They all voted that I was to be pulled up from F3, despite being in a relationship with one of the drivers, because they thought more F1 drivers would want to choose me.  I thought that I was going to be in F3 with my boyfriend, and everyone pretty much has the understanding there to not choose me.  They’re pretty respectful of relationships in that division.  Like how Lewis chose Vetel’s wife for him.  Do you all not do that?”

“Not exactly.”

She frowned, “I’m sorry.  Sheila never quite went into the details of how drivers choose when she told me about things in this division.”

“But how do you and your boyfriend work through it?”

“We promised to always be open when we communicate with one another,” she said honestly, “we talk about what we want, and what we’re feeling.  And if it ever gets to a point where he doesn’t agree with it, or I feel like it’s wrong, then I’ll end my contract.  We want our relationship to work, but for that to happen, it takes effort.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that,” she confirmed, “sometimes…when you believe you love someone, you have to be willing to take that jump into the unknown, Charles…you have to trust your partner.  Because if you don’t, what do you really have?”

“Are you sure that you have to go?”

She gave him a soft, sad smile and played with his hair, before pressing a soft kiss to his temple, “you need to rest, Charles.  We’ve been up all night talking about things.”

“I-I’m not even tired,” he said simply, a yawn sneaking past his lips.  She gave him a sneaky smile and tossed a candy wrapper at his chest, “really, I am not tired!”

“You are a horrible liar, Charles!” she giggled, “you need to get some rest before your flights.”

“What about you?” he asked, “I mean I’m not worried about me, mon petit. I’ve got a few hours before I leave for the airport and our next city.  I-“

“You might, but my tickets are still for the F3 division which means earlier flights, which means that my time is cut short with you.  At least for now,” she frowned, “I have to be at the airport soon, which means I have to leave now.”

“I’ll speak to my manager and make sure that they fix that.”

“You don’t have to,” she said sweetly, “I feel bad that I’m cutting into your time, but you’ll get some time without me.  And I can get some time in with my boyfriend.  Remember?  He’s in F3.”

“But they haven’t even really started yet,” he frowned, “Right now those kids are just taking up garage space.”

“Worry not, Charles…by the time you get to Italy, I will be checked in.  And you can see me again…you know, unless I’m on the beach, working on my tan.”

He chuckled, “I didn’t recall seeing any tan lines when we showered.”

“Only you would search for tan lines while saying we were having a non-sexual, platonic shower together to conserve water, Leclerc,” she teased, pressing another kiss to his cheek.  He smiled and wrapped his arms around her causing her to giggle and fall back onto the bed with him, “Charles.  I have to go.”

“Promise that I’ll see you in Italy.”

“You have two weeks between these races,” she laughed, “you’ll see plenty of me, Charles.”

“Fine,” he sighed, letting her go, just as his door opened.  She stared softly at him, still in his arms for a moment, before a voice cleared close to the door.  Charles looked up and smiled at his older brother, “Lorenzo…you are interrupting something here.”

She all but shot up as tension filled the room.

The eldest Leclerc brother was glaring at her, and for the life of him, Charles couldn’t figure out why.  He knew that Lorenzo didn’t particularly care for the motorsports girls, but he was exceptionally hostile with her.

“I should go.” She said, not daring to spare Charles another look, “I-I’ll see you when you get to Italy, Charles.”

“Yeah,” Lorenzo growled, “Don’t want to miss your flight.”

Charles’ brows furrowed as he watched his elder brother continue to glare at the motorsports girl until she collected her bags and left the room.

“What the hell was that?” he asked his older brother as he hopped off of the bed, “she is my motorsports girl and-“

“And, you chose her?” he scoffed, gesturing to the door, “Zayanna of all people?”

“Zayanna?”

“Mon petit,” he growled angrily, “You fucking chose her?”

“Do you know her or something?”

“Yeah, I was seeing her last year until I found out that she fucks drivers for money,” he spat, “she’s a fucking motorsports girl.”

“Yeah, I know.  I chose her,” he answered, “Wait…that was the girl that you were seeing last year?”

“Yeah!” he huffed.

“Bad blood, then?”

“She lied to me, Charles,” he grumbled, “she made me think she wasn’t what she is.”

“And what is she, Lorenzo?”

“A paid whore!” he spat.

“Hey,” Charles frowned, feeling awfully defensive of the woman that he barely knew, “I don’t know what sort of things happened between the two of you when you were with her, but she’s not just a paid whore, Lorenz.  She’s my guest, and when she’s with me, I don’t want you acting like that around her.”

“Great…so you’re fucking her now then?”

“Just so you know, we didn’t have sex,” Charles replied quickly, “we just talked.”

“Yeah…she’s good at using her mouth!” Lorenzo hissed.

“Hey…I’m serious,” Charles growled, grabbing his brother by the shoulder, “we were just talking.  She was talking to me about how she makes her relationship work inside of the FIA.”

Lorenzo’s brow lifted, “you know about A-“

“But if I was having sex with her, it would be none of your business.” He ended, cutting his older brother off.

Chapter 5

[depravitycentral]

General Yandere! Aran Ojiro Profile

Yandere! Aran Ojiro x fem! reader

Warnings: stalking, kidnapping, extreme spoiling/forced financial dependence, guilt tripping, desperation, jealousy, mentions of dub-con and masturbation, mentions of forced physical affection, mentions of creeps, fem reader, MDNI

I do not condone any of the actions described in this post - this is fiction and should be treated as such. If you or a loved one is in a similar situation to anything contained in this post or my blog in general, please seek help. You're in charge of your internet consumption; please make responsible choices. With that, enjoy!

DARLING PROFILE:

 

Sweet

Aran himself is naturally quite nice, despite his penchant for not putting up with other peoples’ bullshit. He’s able to stand up for himself, but he’s never been particularly fond of people who are mean just for the sake of it. He can appreciate a funny joke, a biting comment here or there, but someone who’s entire personality is based off of this? Not so much.

And so, a darling who is naturally quite kind is a perfect match for Aran – he thinks of his beloved as innocent, a little lamb he must protect, and whether this visage of innocence is real or not, Aran believes it to be so. All it takes is a few compliments, a few sweet smiles, some kind favors, anything showcasing his darling’s kindness, really, and Aran is smitten.

And how can he not be?

How can he not imagine how wonderful it would be to spoil someone so kind and compassionate, to reward them for rewarding others? He views himself as hid darling’s protector, and it melts his heart to see his beloved caring for other people, even if it causes these same protective tendencies to flare up when others take advantage of them.

He can’t not imagine how wonderful of a partner his darling would be, the compliments slipping past their lips making his cheeks feel hot and his chest lighter than air. He can’t not imagine how wonderful it would be to wake up beside his darling in the early morning, to feel their soft breaths against him, to have their soft, supple body pressed against his own in ways that make him groan, his own body oh so aware of them? How can he not imagine how kind and loving his darling would be towards their children, a few little copies of the two of them running around, laughing and giggling and calling them mama, Aran being daddy…

It’s the stuff of his deepest hopes for the future, and having a kind darling plays into these fantasies – so while Aran could fall for a meaner darling, it’s unlikely. He wants to protect his sweet baby, and give them the protection, love and devotion they deserve – he’s just rewarding them for everything they earn, after all.

Passionate

Aran’s hobby has been volleyball for as long as he can remember. He’s always loved the sport; playing it, watching it, talking about it, even just being in the gym makes him happy.

And so, a darling that has a similar sort of passion would make Aran’s obsession grow tenfold.

It doesn’t have to be volleyball, or even a sport – any sort of activity that makes his darling happy makes Aran happy. (Arguably even more happy, because watching his darling smile and get lost in their own little world as they practice the hobby has him staring like a lovesick fool, his lips parted and brows tilted in, his throat feeling tight because fuck, how can someone be so damn adorable?)

It could be anything at all – writing, cooking, playing the trumpet, watercolors, reviewing movies, fashion, anything at all. Aran just loves the idea of his darling loving something, and he’ll eagerly ask them about anything he can involving the passion. He's asking what got them into it over dinner, asking to see, hear, taste or watch some of their creations as they give him a tour of their modest apartment.

(He’s watching them nervously show off their hobby, but inside he’s cooing at how adorably embarrassed they are, because no one has ever taken such an intense interest in their passion before, and he can tell they’re nervous that they’re boring him, that he’s losing interest and thinking they’re weird, even though the truth couldn’t be further from it.)

He’s asking his darling to teach him the basics, to learn to sketch a circle or knit a few stitches or play a scale on the piano. He just wants to be involved in his darling’s hobby, mostly because he loves watching the way their eyes light up as they indulge themselves in it, their whole body language brightening up, only furthering his love because fuck, he wants them to look like that one day when Aran himself is on their mind.

He wants to be his darling’s passion one day, just as they are his, but for the meantime he doesn’t mind watching – they’re just so damn cute, after all.

Bookworm

This isn’t something that Aran must have in a partner, but it’s certainly a plus for him.

He’s always been attracted to softer, quieter people, and having a darling fits this mold is a dream come true for him. And to further exemplify the stereotype, Aran particularly likes those are deeply interested in literature.

The genre doesn’t matter – it could be hardcore fantasy books, cliché romances, historical non-fiction, or anything in between. He doesn’t care, just as long as they enjoy picking up a book and curling up under a blanket to read.

He himself isn’t too much of a reader, but he loves to imagine his darling snuggled up on a couch or in a comfortable chair, a book inches from their nose as their eyes eagerly take in the words, flipping through the pages so quickly it’s almost impossible they’re absorbing everything the story has to offer.

He likes to think of his beloved as being so enraptured by the book that they’re completely unaware of the real world around them, fully immersed in the story and becoming invested in the characters, the plot, the action, the everything. It’s just so fucking cute, and Aran has no issues asking about said books.

He doesn’t mind listening to his darling rant and rave about the text for hours on end, watching their face as they talk and talk, slowly opening up more and more as they discuss something they truly love. Speaking of watching, one of Aran’s favorite pastimes is to simply watch his darling read – he likes to see the way their eyebrow wrinkles when a character does something unexpected, the shock in their face as they read a cliffhanger, the way they bite their lip as the tension in the scene rises to almost unbearable levels.

It’s too much, really, because while Aran thinks it’s so very adorable, he has a darker, more perverse reason why he enjoys watching his darling’s face – it’s too easy to imagine the way those expressions could be morphed into something dirty, something lewd.

It’s remarkably easy to fantasize about the way they’d look when he presses inside of them, stretching them out as they tell him it’s too big, not gonna fit! He’s plagued by thoughts about his beloved, and having a bookish, almost nerdy darling would be perfect for him – in more ways than one.

Shy

Aran isn’t too picky with this particular trait either, though he openly admits that he tends to find himself attracted to those that are a bit more hesitant around new people.

Perhaps it’s the protector in him; he doesn’t like the idea of his darling constantly talking to new people, interacting with them and potentially developing feelings for them.

He doesn’t like that they could be chatting with any number of people, interacting with creeps and men with bad intentions that they wouldn’t even know about until it’s too late – it makes his skin crawl just thinking about it, anxiety sweltering in his gut.

And so, to have a darling that’s less inclined to speak to strangers is something Aran really, really likes. It means less worrying about his darling’s safety; why would a person with ill intentions go after someone skittish who won’t give them time a day when they could be going after someone who’s talkative, smiling at them and lowering their guard around them?

Aran couldn’t be happier; not only is it safer for his darling and much more convenient for him, but he loves how easily flustered his darling is. It’s oh so easy to compliment them and see them prickle up, their expression turning bashful as they murmur out a thanks or a compliment or their own, their voice getting all high and cute. It’s adorable, and sometimes it’s too much for Aran – he has to bite back a smile or cover his face, because his heart simply can’t take how fucking cute his darling is.

So really, while he could fall for a more talkative darling, a shier beloved is more his type – he wants to be the only one they talk to, the only who flusters them and makes them feel all gooey and warm inside, just as they make him feel.

It’s only fair his feelings are returned, right?

GENERAL YANDERE TRAITS:

 

Selfless

In general, Aran is absolutely whipped for you.

He’s quite literally head over heels for you – obsessed to the point that nearly all of his waking thoughts revolve around you, and a good portion of his sleeping thoughts as well.

He’s dreaming about you nearly every night, imagining your pretty face in his hands as he kisses you, your voice saying his name, how you’d laugh at his jokes and lean into his side as you watch movies together on the couch, the relaxing night slowly turning into something much more exciting as wandering hands and eager mouths begin to explore.

Aran loves the idea of loving you, and he’s surprisingly naturally quite romantic. He’s always been a bit of a sucker for those horrible romance movies; chick flicks, period pieces, anything with a strong romantic story line in it. He’s always idolized the idea of having someone to love, and as a result, once you step into his life, someone with whom he feels so strongly and passionately for, every cute date idea, romantic line he’s ever seen seems possible, real, important.

Once Aran’s feelings for you develop, he becomes more or less your personal servant. He lives to see you happy – your smile is the most beautiful thing he thinks he’s ever seen, and when it’s directed at him?

God, does it feel good to make a tall, buff, nationally known athlete fall to his knees simply because you looked at him?

Aran would do anything for you if you asked him to; he wants you to associate him with happiness and chivalry, and he’s willing to go to any length to get this association. He’s always trying to do things for you – he’s bringing you your favorite pastries from that bakery nearby the practice courts, telling you to not bother paying him back because ‘you’ll cover next time’, even though he’d rather die than let you pay for something of his.

He’ll always show up at your workplace with a somewhat bashful smile, the little cardboard box in his hands as you gasp and hug him, your smile lighting up your face as he gapes and stares at you like some teenage boy. He’s buying you little trinkets that remind him of you; anything you collect, little plushies that are adorable (just like you).

He’ll pick them up and smile down at them, thinking of how your hair looks like this plush’s, how your cheeks are so cute and round like this one’s, how this one looks almost exactly like you – a character from a TV show that he looks up once he gets home, if only because while the two of you are vastly different, he feels like he’s getting to watch you living out your life.

Fantasies cloud of his mind of living out your day to day with you, of getting to wake up with you in his arms, your messy bed head looking adorable as you snore slightly into his chest. He’s swinging by your place with groceries fairly often, things you didn’t know you needed, only to check and find that you’re much lower on than you thought you were, despite having sworn you checked it yesterday.

Aran doesn’t like to admit that he sometimes tampers with your supplies or basic ingredients just to give him an excuse to buy you something you need – he doesn’t like that it sounds invasive, but seeing your relieved smile and being invited in for a snack or dinner is so worth it. He’s always trying to buy you things, and while it initially made you uncomfortable that he spends so much money on you (and you know the items are expensive – the brand names and quality of the products more than speaks for itself), eventually you’ll stop scolding him for spending his salary almost exclusively on you.

It doesn’t deter him, and he always waves off your complaints, telling you that it’s a pleasure, plus I get to see your smile, so it’s more than worth it. That normally gets you to shut up, your ears feeling hot, only serving to make Aran find you even more adorable than before.

He’s willing to shell out serious amounts of money for anything you’d ever want – a new car? The most expensive one on the market? Of course, and he’ll even get all the fancy additional features that no one needs, like extensive stereo systems and cool gel leather seats.

You want a diamond bracelet costing upwards of thousands of dollars? You’ll find a pretty velvet box on your doorstep the next day, a bouquet of roses accompanying it along with a note that simply says you shine brighter than any diamond.

(He spent hours agonizing over what to write, and despite the corniness, he ultimately decided that maybe classically romantic things would win you over – besides, the words are true.)

Even outside of money, Aran is willing to do anything you’d ever need of him.

Your sink is leaking? He knows next to nothing about plumbing, but he’s quick to pour over dozens of online articles on what could be wrong, arriving at your apartment merely two hours after your frantic call, a toolbox in hand and a determination in his shoulders that you can’t argue with.

You’re struggling with a project for work? Well, Aran may not understand what it is you’re doing, but he’s right beside you as you work through the issue, rubbing your back and smiling at you, encouraging you with smile and compliments each time you make a small breakthrough.

He’ll be there at a moment’s notice, dropping literally everything just to run to your side, like a loyal puppy desperate for its master’s affection and approval.

And of course, Aran doesn’t expect anything in return – he hopes for your love, for you to think of him as your protector and greatest confidant, but he’ll never ask for money or time in return. He’s simply happy to just be of use to you, to feel wanted, needed, like you wouldn’t survive without him.

He’s always slipping into daydreams of ways you’d repay him, how you’d pepper kisses across his cheeks as a thanks for helping change your flat tire. He’s smiling bashfully as he imagines how you’d fuss over him and make him dinner after he’d moved something heavy in your apartment, maybe moving furniture of helping put it all together. He imagines the way you’d sink to your knees and insist on repaying him with pleasure, on making him feel because you make me feel good, too, Aran, and I wanna make you feel so good that all you can remember is my name…

He just wants you to view him as a necessary part of your life, and to see your attention on him and only him for a few moments – anything to get you thinking of him just as much as he thinks of you.

 

Clingy

Tying into his more selfless traits, once Aran’s feelings for you develop, it’ll be extremely difficult to avoid him. He’s never felt this overwhelmingly for someone before, and because you take up so much of his thoughts, he finds it incredibly difficult to not be thinking of you constantly, to be idly wondering what you’re doing, what you’re thinking about, who you’re with, what you’ll be doing next.

He’s obsessive in that he’s almost always got you on his mind, and consequently he finds himself just so ‘happening’ to run into you all the time. He knows the places you frequent – certain cafes or restaurants that you like, learning your orders and preferred drinks. He knows the times you tend to frequent them, suddenly finding that his schedule is – surprise – open during that time too!

He’ll always just be there; his presence isn’t intimidating to you in any way, and as a result it’ll take you quite a while to recognize just how often these ‘coincidences’ seem to happen. It’s nearly daily, with the spiker always feigning surprise that you’re there, because what are the chances?

And once your friendship (relationship, at least to Aran) progresses, slowly he’ll stop trying to make excuses and instead simply reach out to you. You’re getting texts almost every hour from him; questions of whether you’re free, designed to not only get you talking with him, but suggesting activities to do together.

He’ll ask you if you’re free and interested in going to the bookstore with him, because there’s this new series he’s heard about that’s supposed to be so good, and oh, what’s this? It’s the same series you’ve been anxiously waiting to be published? What a coincidence!

He’ll invite you out to get a drink with him and a few of his teammates, but aw what a shame, they can’t make it! They had to cancel at the last minute, but it would be a shame to waste a perfectly good night of drinking, wouldn’t it? So just sit down and let him buy you drink after drink, his face loosening up as time passes, letting some questionable things slip from his lips.

(Slurred words referring to you as his, telling you you’ve been on his mind all day, cheekily complimenting the blue panties he knows you’re wearing under your clothes, all things that seem strange but only make your alcohol infused brain shrug.)

You’re getting texts that are simply asking questions – they’re designed to get a conversation flowing between the two of you, so that your attention is sporadically on him and he can learn more about you. He’s asking you what animal you would be, what superpower you would have, if pineapple belongs on pizza, whether you want children, everything and anything under the sun.

He likes having you speak with him, if only because it makes him feel special, like – if only for a moment – he’s taking up as much of your thoughts as you do his. It’s a thought that makes his cheeks feel hot, his whole body tingling, his muscle tightening up as he stands up to walk and get fresh air because god, why is it so hot in here?

He’s sending you photos of things that reminded him of you throughout the day – a pretty wildflower, an aesthetically pleasing photo of the clouds, gifs of animals with hearts. He likes the way you respond to him so quickly, the three little dots appearing on his screen making his heart pound, nerves eating away at him because what will you say?

He gets simultaneously excited beyond belief and nearly ill every time his phone chimes, your responses making his palms sweat and his heart race because god, you took the time out of your day to respond to him, to give him enough thought to create an answer to his question?

And once you’re actually physically with him, Aran is in seventh heaven – he’s always in your personal space, though it’s difficult to grow mad at him when he’s giving you that shy smile, his words and voice like honey. His hands are always near you as well – he’ll never touch you, because despite how wonderful, euphoric his skin against yours feels, he doesn’t want you to find him creepy or invasive, so he keeps his hands to himself.

His fingers twitch occasionally, the urge to reach out and simply touch your soft skin, squeeze at the fat of your tummy or thighs nearly overwhelming him.

You won’t notice his clinginess much when you’re still unaware of his obsessive feelings towards you – he always seems to be around, but what’s the harm in that? Aran is nice, funny, attractive, a talented volleyball player, and seems to be interested in you, so what could you possibly be upset about?

But once he’s got you in the sanctity of his own apartment, your perspective on his clinginess will change drastically. Now that he’s bitten the bullet and plunged into the process of officially making you his, Aran sees no reason why he should hold back any longer.

Suddenly, he’s always beside you – his hands are on your waist or shoulders, idly playing with your hair or rubbing circles against your skin. You’re always in his lap or within touching distance, his dark eyes fixed on you ninety percent of the time.

He’s always wanting to do things with you; watching TV (often reruns of his games, with him sneaking anxious glances at your reactions each time he spikes a ball, hoping to see you impressed with his strength and skills), cooking together (he does everything involving cutting or heat, so you’re basically resigned to stirring and measuring duty), anything that involves contact between the two of you.

He’s lovesick, truly, and despite being suffocating once he’s got you under his roof, Aran’s not too terrible – he just wants to be with you, and is that such a crime?

Is it a crime to want to touch you, to kiss you and lick you and squeeze you and fuck you and make him your everything, just as you are his?

Protective

In general, Aran views himself as your provider. He likes the idea of being the stereotypical man that protects you from the world, whether that be through financially supporting you, giving you a nice, warm bed to sleep in, or keeping any creeps away from you.

He likes to feel important to you, as if he’s a vital part of your life, and as his obsession develops Aran slowly becomes dependent on this idea of himself being your provider.

He likes to pretend that everything he does affects you in some way – like his every action is for you, designed to keep you safe and make you happy.

When he gets up at the crack of dawn and enters the gym with his teammates for pre-practice working out, he’s fueled by the thought of growing his muscles and stamina so that he can better protect you. With every rep of bench presses, he’s forcing himself to go harder, to push more because in order to intimidate any guy stupid enough to approach you, he needs to look the part of the scary, strong boyfriend. To get any creep to leave you alone when they come wandering too close to you and make you uncomfortable, Aran needs to be able to easily throw them away, to easily pick them up or beat the shit out of them so that they get the fuck away from you, where they belong.

He’s training harder in volleyball practice, slamming the ball with a ferocity that makes the coach and his teammates slightly concerned, but Aran is doing it all for a purpose. The harder he trains, the more impressive his playing, and thus the more impressed you’ll be when you come to the next game he invites you to.

(He almost always invites you to watch his games; he gets you free tickets – they aren’t actually free, he just pays for them and lies saying he got a player discount – and despite how nerve-wracking it is to know you’re in the audience, hopefully watching him, it’s worth it to hear the cheering when he spikes. And if he tries hard enough, he can even pretend to hear your individual cheering out of the masses – chanting his name as loudly as you can, perhaps even your voice yelling I’m so proud of you, good job Aran…)

He’s cleaning himself up more for pre and post match interviews, hoping to look his best in case you’re watching, because he wants you to find him attractive, to think he’s handsome as a thin sheen of sweat lies on his forehead, his biceps nearly bulging out of the volleyball top uniform he’s sporting.

He’s wearing only large hoodies around his home, manifesting the idea that if he keeps wearing them, they’ll retain more of his natural smell, so that when you wear them later it’ll smell like him – you’ll smell like him.

He likes the idea that everything he does affects you in some way, and while it obviously doesn’t, it feeds his view of himself as being your provider, as giving you everything you need in order to be happy in life.

And of course, he takes this mindset into more literal terms with you as well – anytime the two of you are together, he’s employing everything he can think of to keep you safe.

When you’re walking along a sidewalk, he’ll be closer to the traffic, so that if a car happened to swerve off the road, he’d be injured instead of you. He’s holding doors open for you, making sure they don’t slam closed and catch your ankle or elbow.

He’s helping blow on your food to cool it down, because despite what you say it’s still too hot for you to eat, he’s sure.

It’s mildly embarrassing, and while you may think it’s strange how insistent he is on making sure you don’t hurt yourself, you likely won’t fight it too much. After all, if you were to ask him why he seemed to care so much, he’d only blanch and rub the back of his neck awkwardly, telling you that he just wants to help keep you safe. And isn’t that just so romantic and sweet? This big, strong, athletic man caring enough to keep you safe, to use his time and energy to make sure you’re taken care of, that you’re in pristine condition and happy.

It’s only natural to be flattered – who wouldn’t be? Except, once Aran lets his walls down a bit, exposing just how truly obsessed with you he’s become, it suddenly shifts from sweet to creepy very, very quickly.

What started as endearing when he’d walk on the traffic heavy side of the street becomes concerning when you learn he didn’t want anyone in the cars to see you, because what if someone saw you and decided to pursue you, breaking your heart and stringing you along in the process? Besides, wouldn’t it be just so much better if no one else knew you, if Aran was all you had? At least then he’d know you wouldn’t be associating yourself with the wrong sort of people.

What started as a sweet gesture when he’d gotten you the pocket taster to keep in your purse suddenly becomes much more sinister when you discover the tracking device placed into the taser’s side, designed to help him keep tabs on your location discreetly, so that you wouldn’t know.

Once you’re trapped inside his home, every desire, thought, fantasy and urge coming to light, you’ll know that Aran is not nearly the protector he claims to be – at least, in some ways. Of course, he’s largely successful in making sure you don’t get harmed. He won’t let you near anything sharp or hot, always supervising when you’re in the kitchen or supplies that have even the potential to injure you.

He’s always playing guard dog to you, making sure you’re happy and safe, and that nothing and no one can touch you. You’re his, and while it makes him giddy and light headed to think of himself as your protector, don’t think this role is entirely selfless – if you were to be hurt, killed, altered in any way that changed the core of who you are, Aran wouldn’t be able to function.

You just mean too much to him – you’re his life, his love, and he’ll be damned if he’ll let you walk away, scathed or unscathed. You’re just too precious to him, and isn’t that just so damn romantic?

 

DEALING WITH RIVALS:

 

When it comes to dealing with rivals for your affection, Aran is surprisingly good at controlling himself.

He’s not a particularly forceful yandere; in general, he wants you to want him. He wants you to be in a relationship with him because you deem him a worthy partner, because you’re in love with him and want to spend every waking moment by his side.

He doesn’t like the prospect of isolating you – there’s something underhanded and dirty about getting you to be his that way. There’s something cheap about not letting you have any contact with any other men in your life, or women for that matter. He’s not naïve; he understands that you’re gorgeous, that other people are more than likely interested in you too.

And how could they not be? Aran worships the ground you walk on, and is it so strange to assume that other men likely do the same?

He knows that he’s not the only one vying for your attention and heart, but this only furthers his reasoning that he wants you to want him, that he wants you to choose him. And so, while it kills him inside, Aran doesn’t outwardly try to run off his competition. He’s not immediately threatening the men that stare longingly at you, their palms sweaty as they slowly build up the courage to approach you and talk to you. It hurts his heart, yes, and it’s the worst torture he can imagine to watch, but he has to.

It makes every muscle in his body seize up as his dark eyes bore into the back of the man chatting with you, his frame so rigid that passerbys are concerned, even asking him if he’s alright. It makes his lungs feel like they’re being crushed, the breath difficult to suck in, his every bit of attention devoted to simply watching, praying that you don’t fall victim to the man’s charms, that you won’t be wooed by his clearly inadequate attempts at flattering you.

He’ll be mentally chanting that this stranger, this piece of shit, doesn’t deserve someone as lovely as you. They’ll never be able to care for you like he can; no one knows you as well, no one is willing to go to such extreme lengths to make you happy.

He’ll always be watching, if only because he’s always slightly on edge – not even just out of fear that you’ll develop interest in another man, but simply because he’s terrified that you’ll somehow be hurt. He’s scared that you’ll be taken advantage of, that this man will reach out and touch you, that you’ll develop bruises and scream and cry because Aran couldn’t protect you like he’s supposed to.

He’s scared that if he looks away for even one moment, you’ll disappear, gone forever, the love of his life. It’s a horrible feeling, one that claws at his chest and eats at his heart, but Aran almost thinks the torture of watching is worth it. It strengthens his love for you, and with every refusal you give, every awkward smile and lame excuse of why you need to be going, he feels his chest swell with pride.

You want him, he’s sure of it. Why would you be denying so many other men if you weren’t already in love with the spiker himself? It’s obvious, and while it hurts more than anything he’s ever experienced, Aran has to let other men approach you, at least unless they hurt you.

It’s the only way to know for sure that you’re his.

Aran frowns as he notices the way the man behind you in line keeps glancing at you. You’re still waiting to order your sandwich, the line at the deli decidedly long. Aran already had his – you’d claimed you weren’t hungry, and despite Aran’s insistence, you didn’t allow him to buy you any food.

However, as you watched him eat his sandwich, something in your attitude must’ve changed – you should’ve let him wait in line for you, to pay for the sandwich he knows is your favorite, but you didn’t.

He should’ve insisted more, been more forceful, but it’s too late now – most definitely too late as the man behind you puffs up his chest, clearing his throat and telling you something. You jump slightly and turn around to face him, a small smile on your face as you answer whatever question he’d asked you.

Aran’s too far away to hear what you’re saying, but with the way the man laughs, he can’t help tightening his hand into a fist under the table. His blunt nails dig into his palm, surely leaving indents in the calloused skin, but he can’t find it in himself to care. His gaze is fixed on you, his sandwich pathetically forgotten on the deli paper before him. His lips are slightly parted as he watches, murmuring under his breath to ignore him, ignore him please, don’t laugh at his jokes, don’t smile at him, stop touching her…

He doesn’t even realize he’s speaking, but it hardly matters – because despite smiling at his joke, the man doesn’t seem to realize that you aren’t nearly as interested as he thinks, because a moment later he’s reaching out and lightly touching your arm.

You recoil immediately, shrinking back slightly as your smile turns tight, and suddenly the air in the room has returned, Aran heaving a massive, massive sigh because you obviously don’t want him to touch you. You obviously don’t want his filthy hands on you – but you do want Aran’s, if the way you let him touch you is anything. You don’t shy away from his small touches; a hand on your back to guide you, a pat on your head when he calls you short or fun-sized because he knows it annoys you. He bounces his foot against the ground, internally swearing that the line would just hurry the fuck up, so that you can come back and get away from the man who has now fallen quiet, fishing in his wallet for nothing.

You order your sandwich, keeping your back to the stranger, and as you return, the intensity in Aran’s gaze surprises you.

Those dark eyes are fixed directly on you, not wavering even the slightest bit, and a small shiver wracks your spine because fuck, why does his gaze feel so heavy and crushing?

You shrug it off, however, when he smiles at you, the grin so bright that it almost blinds you. There’s something making him indescribably happy, you can tell, but you don’t know what. You make some comment about him not having finished his sandwich yet, but Aran doesn’t pay any attention – he’s too focused on the fact that you didn’t want that man.

You rejected him essentially, and instead chose to come stay with him, with Aran, the only one who really loves you. He’s too lost in his fantasy happy land to return the teases you give him, instead relishing in the the warm, fluttery feeling in his heart, his eyes occasionally darting to the other man to watch him hurriedly walk out of the sandwich shop, sending you a last cursory glance before slamming the door behind him.

Pride swells in Aran’s chest, and once you’ve both finished, he’s quick to place his hand on the small of your back, opening up the door for you. And to his intense happiness, you don’t flinch. You let him touch you, let him guide you, let him care for you and lead you out onto the busy street.

He’s in heaven, and as he smiles like a fool, you won’t suspect a thing. He’s always been so happy, it’s just who he is – his labored breathing and the excited, desperate twitch of his fingers to keep touching you has nothing to do with you, right?

TAKING HIS DARLING AWAY:

 

Because many aspects of Aran’s relationship with you are normal, kidnapping you isn’t something that crosses his mind until very, very late into his obsession with you.

He likes the idea of keeping things somewhat natural between the two of you; organic and warm, with nothing too forced. He wants to woo you, to have that perfect romantic courtship where he brings you flowers, making you flustered, takes you on lavish dates by candlelight at the most expensive and exclusive restaurants in town because he can afford it.

He wants you to feel spoiled and loved, and most of all he wants you to choose to be with him. He wants you to want him out of all the other men you know, for you to decide that he’s the one for you just as he knows you are for him.

And so, while the idea of having you knowingly in his home, kept safe, pristine, and his is extremely appealing, Aran struggles to let go of his desire for your willingness in the arrangement.

He can’t deny that having you stuck at home, spending your days safely under lock and key gets him feeling strangely domestic, butterflies igniting in his stomach as he bites back a smile, his cheeks feeling hot. He’s always daydreaming about how you’d look so pretty chopping up vegetables in the kitchen when he gets home, maybe a cute apron around your waist as you hum and sing to yourself, only stopping when he hugs you from behind, letting yourself melt into his arms.

(Of course, he’d never let you actually chop anything alone – too scared of you cutting yourself with the knife, but the fantasy is still appealing.)

He’s fantasizing about you doing the laundry, him coming home to a house that smells like detergent and new sheets on the bed; soft, warm, and oh so pristine.

(Though, they won’t be by the time the night is through – you’ll have to scrub out the new white stains, but that’s nothing new.)

He’s imagining the way you’d lay your head on his chest while you shovel popcorn into your mouth, the wool blanket strewn over the both of you making him feel all warm and fuzzy as you stare intently at the TV screen, the movie he'd chosen capturing your interest perfectly.

He’s got all kinds of domestic fantasies in his head, and Aran is terrified that by kidnapping you, he’s ruining any chance of any and all of these daydreams from becoming real. He’s too attached to the idea of seeing you with his baby on your hip, your pretty face smiling at him while you coo at the child, nursing it and telling him that you were wondering if you could take Friday off, I’ve been feeling awfully lonely around the house, and the baby’s normally asleep for a few hours during the afternoon – maybe we could break in those new sheets we got last month?

He’s too attached to the idea of having a normal, healthy, perfect life with you to really seriously consider forcibly relocating you.

However, Aran is nothing if not practical – and so, while it pains him immensely to do so, if something serious were to happen to you, he’d be left with no choice but to steal you away. It’d have to be something quite significant, however; perhaps an attempted home invasion, or a robbery, or maybe you were hit by a car or contracted some horrible virus that meant you needed care at all hours of the day.

Whatever the reason may be, he’ll be sighing and wringing his hands, but nonetheless gathering the softest rope he can find, setting up pillows in the back of his car so that you’re comfortable on the ride over, even going so far as to keep his face covered during the event, so that he can perhaps fabricate some story of how he was saving you from another robbery – and isn’t he just such a good guy for doing that?

For being so considerate, kind, being your knight in shining armor?

As a captor, Aran can be described mostly as incredibly giving. In a lot of ways, you’ll be terribly, rottenly spoiled; he’s giving you anything and everything he can think of.

When you initially wake up in his home, terrified and changed into a set of clean, soft pajamas (though thankfully your panties and bra are still on, helping relieve your anxiety just slightly), you’ll notice immediately how lavish the bedroom you’re in is.

The walls are a pretty emerald color, mahogany drawers and dressers sitting along the wall. There’s a window – it’s easily six feet tall and six feet wide, with a window seat and big, billowy white curtains, though there’s something odd about the glass – you get up to examine it, only to find it feels brittle, harder, even flexible. (Bulletproof glass, you later learn, placed there in case you got any ideas about braving the twenty story jump.)

All sizes and shapes of pillows adorn the bed, the best quality sheets and a heavy comforter that traps heat so well you’ll nearly be sweating in December. The closet is full of pretty clothing you don’t recognize; all colors you love, neutral pieces that flatter your form and make you feel more expensive than you’ve ever felt in your life.

Aran’s only buying the best quality food, always making sure you have a healthy balance of vegetables, protein and carbs, even occasionally indulging you with exquisite chocolates and pastries. He’s always got music playing in every room of the apartment; quietly, so as not to distract you, but you’ll notice it’s a playlist of your favorite songs. The ones that relax you, that make you smile, that bring back sentimental memories.

He’s got all the supplies for your hobbies set up in ‘your room’, as he likes to call it. Anything from easels and paint brushes to a baby grand piano will reside in the room, and despite your pleas for him to not spend so much money on you, Aran will just laugh and poke your nose lightly, telling you to not worry, that he’s got more than enough money to buy a pretty lady like you pretty things.

He just wants you to be as happy as humanly possible, and while he knows you’ll always be at least a little bit unhappy, he’s hopeful that he can help make it up to you by being the perfect partner – indulging you in all the romantic cliches and dreams you may have had when you were young.

Besides, he’s a romantic at heart, and while it feels maybe just a tad bit overkill to have the rose petals on the table and candlelight as you share a meal he cooked, Aran doesn’t care. Because when you’re wearing the dress he custom ordered for you, your curves looking magnificent and your face so warm and flustered, how can he care about anything at all except this moment?

He spoils you, yes, but you’ll not forget your kidnapped immediately – no, you can’t, not when he’s insisting you share a bed from the beginning. He’ll never try to touch you or force you into anything, but his insistence on letting him cuddle you, on letting him place a hand to your hip while you drift into sleep with your face pressed against his chest is perhaps not your first choice for how to sleep.

But really, aside from a few small quirks of Aran, you’ll find yourself growing disturbingly comfortable disturbingly fast. After all, he’s a charmer – and though you may try to hate him for kidnapping you, for being so horribly, disgustingly, wonderfully obsessed with you, he’s like a puppy.

One desperate for your affection, always bringing you a new bone or toy, and one who’ll do anything for you at a moment’s command. So really, just let him pamper you, let him spoil you, even if it makes you uncomfortable.

It makes him happy, and he’s sure eventually it’ll make you happy, too – and won’t it? Won’t it, really?

PUNISHMENTS:

 

Aran doesn’t ‘do’ punishments.

They just simply aren’t his thing – he wants you to love him, for your relationship to develop as organically as it possibly can (considering he’s kidnapped you and essentially been stalking you for months, of course), and the concept of disciplining you for misbehaving doesn’t fit his hopes for a normal, healthy relationship.

And so, Aran is really quite lenient when it comes to you – he doesn’t get mad very often, instead preferring to keep a steady, calm disposition, because if he wants the best possible chance of you falling in love with him, doesn’t it make more sense to be calm, happy, warm?

Doesn’t it make more sense for him to approach you with loving arms, gentle touches, soft smiles that make your cheeks heat up, that get your stomach feeling fluttery and light because fuck, has anyone ever looked at you with so much adoration and unfiltered joy?

It’s overwhelming, and for the most part Aran’s method of not punishing you works exactly as he wants it to. It’s not long before you’re moving past your hatred of him for ruining your life by stealing it for himself, and while you hope to never forgive him for what he’s done, you’re looking past it remarkably fast.

Too fast, you could even say, though with every compliment he gives you, it becomes harder to find issue with this development. With every hand picked present that you’re sure is much too expensive being given to you with that flustered, wide grin on his face, you’ll slowly find yourself forgetting about the rage you promised yourself you’d never forget.

It’s scary, really, how he’s able to mold you into what you hoped you’d never become – loving, submissive to him, wanting to please him so that the love and care you’ve come to grow addicted to is never cruelly ripped away from you.

It’s terrifying just how easily Aran is able to mold you into his ideal lover; he’s not trying to change you by any means, but after a few months with him, you’ll discover that you don’t fully recognize yourself anymore. He isn’t trying to break you down and rebuild your personality to be exactly what he wants, if only because he already loves you exactly the way you are – why would he change anything?

And yet, despite him not trying to, it’s impossible to ignore the way you’ve never been this happy before.

When you look in the mirror, you’ll find yourself smiling much more than you used to; there’s laugh lines starting to appear on your cheeks, surely formed from all the horrible jokes and sweet nothing Aran whispers in your ear with that dashing smile and those callused, gentle hands caressing your body against him.

You’ll discover that you look healthier than you ever have before – your body looks to be at a good, manageable weight, your hair shiny and healthy, your skin cleaner than you remember it being when you were on your own.

And really, who do you have to blame but Aran?

He’s so diligent in taking care of you, so loving and overwhelmingly giving when it comes to making you happy and healthy that you really can’t ignore the way your body and mind has changed. You feel happy, loved – by your captor, no less.

And so while you may have initially been so, so enraged and terrified of him for stealing you away from your old life, eventually the rage will subside, your love and devotion to him taking its place. Aran couldn’t be happier; this is exactly what he wanted, and seeing the way you morph into greeting him when he returns home from practice with a big hug and a flurry of kisses against his cheeks and lips couldn’t be more appreciated.

He just really, really loves you, but that isn’t to say the beginning of your relationship was more rocky, your behavior and feelings towards him not even a shadow of what they are now.

Even at the beginning, Aran was never one to actually hurt you. He hates the idea of physically touching you in anything other than love or in teasing, and so he absolutely refuses to harm you, to punch or scratch or slap or bruise you.

(You’ll notice early on into your intimate life with him that bruises are left often, but only because Aran needs you as close as physically possible when he’s fucking you, keeping your warm body next to his without an inch of space because god, how can you feel so damn good?)

And so, even when Aran gets mad (which is already a rare occurrence), you’ll never have to worry about being on the receiving end of a swinging fist, or having blood pooling anywhere on your body.

He would die before he harms you in that way – it would break him, truly, to the point where he may actually consider ending his life, but only if yours is taken alongside his as well, so that the both of you can be together in life and death.

And so, when Aran does get mad, he’s not even trying to punish you.

A few things can set him off – the main one being any sort of an escape attempt by you.

He’s livid the first few times you try this; he understands why, rationally, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less. You’re trying to escape him, to run away from him, clearly showing you aren’t happy. And why aren’t you happy? Doesn’t he give you everything he possibly can, everything you could possibly want?

What more is there for him to give you – he’s already given you his heart, body and soul?

Sunlight is streaming through the window when Aran wakes up, his lashes fluttering as his face scrunches up into a grimace, the bright light not welcome. He groans, rolling over onto his side and instinctually reaching for you – he always sleeps with you in his arms, your warm body against his. He finds it helps him sleep, and often he’ll wait until you drift into a slumber before he stares at your face, tracing the lines of your lips and cheeks with his thumb while he marvels at how beautiful you are.

Except his hands don’t feel you. His eyes shoot open, and at the empty space where your body should be in the bed, immediately he’s bolting out of bed, scrambling to open the bedroom door. The boxers he’s wearing are haphazardly on his hips, and normally he’d be embarrassed that you see him in such a messy state, but he doesn’t fucking care.

Where are you? You’re never up before him – it’s five o’clock in the morning for Christ’s sake, you’re surely not making breakfast.

He’s quick to check the living room, seeing no sign of you anywhere. The kitchen is next, and while he’s relieved to not find a lifeless you bleeding out on the floor, it does little to calm his anxiety.

It’s only once he reaches the front door that he sees you – you’re on your knees, hands desperately working the bobby pin at the deadbolt’s lock, your movements frantic yet obviously trying to stay silent.

Aran stares for a moment, before his face hardens, his legs bursting forward as he scoops you up into his arms. You yelp and kick at him, telling him to let you go as you thrash, but with your every move Aran only finds himself getting more and more angry.

Soon he’s setting you down on the couch (not nearly as gently as he normally does, you distantly note), before taking a few steps back, his dark eyes fixed on you. He’s rubbing at his temples, clutching at his jaw, shaking his head and murmuring something under his breath that you don’t hear.

You’re mad, too, and your mouth opens as you prepare to accuse him. Why did you stop me? I was so close Aran, so close to getting out of this goddamn apartment!

And that’s it, really – it’s enough to have the extremely thin control over his rage snapping off. Why the hell are you trying to leave? What’s wrong with you?

He’s yelling, his voice so loud that you physically cower back into the couch, the cushions soft but not enough. You’ve never heard him sound like this before; this angry, this hurt. His fists are clenched at his sides, the muscles in his torso and arms visibly flexing as he continues on.

I do everything for you, do you understand? I give you every fucking thing I own – my heart, my money, my home, my love! And you what? You squander it? Throw it away like it means nothing? How ungrateful can you be?

He’s lost himself, he knows it, and yet he can’t stop. The prospect of you running away from him is just too much – he's tried too damn hard to get you to love him, to woo you for you to even think of leaving him behind. How can he survive without you?

He’s still yelling, but you’re not listening anymore. You can’t, not as a stinging, hot sensation in your nose leads to tears, your sniffles and small hiccups going ignored by Aran as he continues on.

It’s euphoric, in a way, expressing himself, but as his dark gaze moves from the ceiling (which he’d been yelling at) and towards you, the words die in his throat. Your hands are at your eyes, wiping away the tears as you sob, the emotions overflowing you. The yelling, the escape attempt, the months of trying to repress the way your desire to leave was slowly dwindling was all just too damn much –

You didn’t even realize it had gone quiet in the room until Aran’s arms are around you, your smaller body pressed against his broad chest. His face is against your neck, and you see his shoulders shaking slightly.

You wonder if he’s crying, too.

It’s silent for a few moments as your tears continue to flow, but you hug him back slowly, whispering in a dry, hiccupy voice that you’re s-sorry Aran, ‘m so sorry, I don’t – I don’t know why I tried to leave, I’m happy here. I wanna stay with you, please let me stay with you, please d-don’t leave me, please!

Your arms are fully around him now, clutching onto him with as much vigor as he you, and Aran stiffens slightly. He shouldn’t have yelled at you; that was uncalled for, and he’d made you fucking cry, something that was making him feeling physically ill. And yet, you were saying you didn’t want him to leave you, that you want to stay with him, that you’re happy…

And sure, maybe it’s a ploy to calm him down, but Aran doesn’t care. How can he, when you’re separating after a few moments, a small, sad smile on his lips as he wipes away your tears with his thumb, his voice much softer as he tells you I’ll never leave you, I promise. Shh, shh, it’s okay, I love you, I’ll never let you go. Now c’mere, I’m makin’ us a bath.

He’s quick to call out of practice that morning, settling you into the large white tub in front of him, your head leaning on his chest as the scent of lavender surrounds you both.

He holds you, letting you get the last few tears out, all the while reminding you that he loves you, you’re perfect, you’re his everything, and how can a man live without his whole world?

OVERALL DANGER:

Overall rating: 4/10

Aran really isn’t so much dangerous as he is effective. He’s not intentionally manipulative – no, of course not.

He doesn’t want to trick you into anything, to lure you into falling in love with him. No, he wants your heart honestly, to have you falling in love with him on your own terms, in your own time, so that when you do eventually make him your world, you’re doing so willingly.

However, Aran isn’t adverse to helping you along the path; he’s spending time with you, complimenting you as often as he can, buying you expensive gifts and taking you out on dates (though, you’re never quite sure if he means them romantically or platonically, and you’re almost too scared to ask), anything he can think of that’ll have you falling for him. He just wants you to enjoy being around him, to crave him like he craves you, to return the level of sick devotion he holds for you.

You’re perfect; genuinely everything he could want in a woman, and while it’s a bit embarrassing how horribly whipped and desperate he is for your attention and validation, Aran slowly begins finding that he doesn’t care.

After all, how can anything else besides your love matter?

How can he find it in himself to care whether he comes off as pathetic when he sends you a bouquet of roses on your birthday, the pretty card he spent hours writing (both to solidify what he wanted to write, and also to practice his cursive so you’d think it’s pretty and worth keeping) describing how beautiful you are, how he’d love nothing more than to hold you, kiss you, mark you up so that no other man could ever take you?

Aran slowly loses himself to his obsession with you, and while he’s not particularly delusional or violent, Aran is dedicated. So much so that it’s almost futile to run from his love – he will eventually have you falling for him, returning his feelings whether you realize it or not.

And he couldn’t be happier; the day you willingly return his hugs, initiate kisses, grind down on him with that tight fucking pussy is the happiest day of his life.

Because it means you want him, and who doesn’t like being wanted? Especially by the woman they’ve spent years pining for, obsessing over, watching and fantasizing about like some lovesick teenage boy?

Not even an upstanding man like Aran would resist that – so congratulations, because once he’s hooked, he’s never, ever letting you go.

[sungmee]

(steddyhands, cw: character death)

i was thinking about steddyhands, and how much i like the idea of what they could all be together. i was thinking about three battered and tired middle-aged men who have finally found shelter in a storm. i was thinking about the three of them getting years together, getting older, getting grayer.

i was thinking about how it ends.

because the thing is, they were already relatively old when they all met, and it took time to work everything out, and old in the pirate world is impressive but also dangerous. yes they get their years of bliss and its great and its perfect and its softness and passion and peace.

but they start to slow down, vision and mobility and the like starting to degrade, and just as they consider if they should maybe retire, ed goes down in one of their last raids. the wound is pretty bad, and even doing the best they can to treat it, he ends up succumbing to it in the end and they lose him.

(because even in a love story, someone always has to go first)

and stede and izzy and the crew are left mourning, and somehow stede manages to hang on, to draw himself up and still be a captain, because he's the sole captain now, and he sorts them out and gets them sailing and deals with the body (and god, that’s the hardest part isn't it? seeing ed so still), and izzy has no fucking idea how stede is managing to do anything, because he can barely think, let alone organize the rest of the crew.

and he knows, better than anyone, how deep the grief runs in stede; he's the one who gets to see stede retreat to the cabin at the end of the day and break down again and again when he finds clothes left behind, bars of lavender soap, an empty spot in the bed. and if izzy had ever given it thought, he would’ve assumed ed and stede would’ve gone together.

but stede remains, even though anyone can see that some part of him desperately wants to follow ed, and izzy comes to the shattering realization one night, when stede is curled up in the bed clinging to him like his life depends on it, that stede is still around because he doesn’t want to leave izzy. and he's guilty and angry and horrendously grateful and a whole storm of emotions about it.

they make it a while, keep sailing and get affairs in order, make sure the crew is set and taken care of, but eventually there's something else; a raid, an attack, a freak accident, and its stede bleeding out this time. its both painful and not when he closes his eyes and doesn’t open them again.

izzy lasts long enough to make sure the crew is on their way and stede is put to rest, and then absolutely no one is surprised (and are actually kind of relieved) when izzy goes in his sleep.

it was battle wounds that took blackbeard and the gentleman pirate, but izzy hands died of a broken heart.